BETTINA  YON  HUTTEN 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 


THE 


GREEN  PATCH 


BY 


BETTINA  VON  HUTTEN 


AUTHOR  OF 

"OUR  LADY  OF  THE  BEECHES5'  "pAM* 

"PAM  DECIDES"  "BEECHY" 

ETC. 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


All  rights  reserved,  including  that  of  translation, 
into  foreign  languages,  including  the  Scandinavian 


COPYRIGHT,  1910 
BY  FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 


September 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

CHAPTER  I          ll 

CHAPTER  II 8 

CHAPTER  III 18 

CHAPTER  IV 25 

CHAPTER  V         33 

CHAPTER  VI 42 

CHAPTER  VII 50 

CHAPTER  VIII 59 

CHAPTER  IX 67 

CHAPTER  X       , 75 

CHAPTER  XI 82 

CHAPTER  XII 89 

CHAPTER  XIII 97 

CHAPTER  XIV 106 

CHAPTER  XV Ill 

CHAPTER  XVI 119 

CHAPTER  XVII 128 

CHAPTER  XVIII 137 

CHAPTER  XIX 146 

CHAPTER  XX 154 

CHAPTER  XXI 162 

CHAPTER  XXII       .      .      .      .      '.      .      .      .,  170 

v 


2138771 


vi  CONTENTS 

PAGE 

CHAPTEE  XXIII 179 

CHAPTEE  XXIV 187 

CHAPTEE  XXV 196 

CHAPTEE  XXVI 206 

CHAPTEE  XXVII 215 

CHAPTEE  XXVIII 227 

CHAPTEE  XXIX 234 

CHAPTEE  XXX 243 

CHAPTEE  XXXI 250 

CHAPTEE  XXXII 257 

CHAPTEE  XXXIII 265 

CHAPTEE  XXXIV         276 

CHAPTEE  XXXV .286 

CHAPTEE  XXXVI 296 

CHAPTEE  XXXVII 305 

CHAPTEE  XXXVIII      .......  314 

CHAPTEE  XXXIX .326 

CHAPTEE  XL 336 

CHAPTEE  XLI 345 

CHAPTEE  XLII  359 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 


CHAPTER  I 

THERE  came  a  day  when  Christopher  Lambe 
found  that  he  could  no  longer  bear  his  wife, 
his  three  little  girls,  Lambe  House,  Sussex, 
England  in  general.  He  was  standing  on  the 
downs  at  dawn,  looking  at  the  pallid  expectant  sea 
against  which  a  windmill's  motionless  arms  looked  as 
if  they  were  etched  by  an  impressionist  master.  Lambe 
loved  the  world  at  hours  when  it  seemed  empty,  and 
now  he  stood  there  shivering  slightly,  for  it  was 
chilly ;  his  hands  buried  in  the  pockets  of  his  old  green 
shooting  jacket,  himself  the  only  human  thing  in 
sight.  He  was  a  narrow-shouldered  man  with  a  long 
neck  and  light  eyes  that  were  really  large,  but  looked 
small  from  his  habit  of  keeping  them  half  closed.  He 
wore  no  mustache  at  a  time  when  most  men  did.  His 
nose  was  long  and  delicate  and  looked  through  its 
unusual  fineness  of  modeling  and  translucent  nostrils 
as  though  it  might  in  moments  of  emotion  be  tremu- 
lous. Behind  his  small  figure,  down  in  the  hollow,  lay 
Lambe  House,  a  large,  square  Georgian  building, 
still  asleep  behind  its  trees.  Lambe  had  been  born 
there,  and  his  father,  and  his  grandfather,  and  his 

1 


2  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

great-grandfather.  The  ground  on  which  he  stood 
was  his  and  much  of  the  undulating  downs  beyond  the 
house.  He  had  married  some  ten  years  ago  and  his 
wife  had  presented  him  with  three  children,  all  girls,  a 
fact  which  had  grieved  her  very  much,  but  caused  him 
no  particular  disappointment.  "They  are  pleasant 
babies,"  he  told  the  Vicar,  an  old  Cambridge  friend, 
"they  don't  cry  much."  Lady  Norah's  babies  were 
well  brought  up  and  her  house  well  run.  There  was 
never  the  least  friction  among  the  intricate  wheels  of 
the  large  household.  The  servants  stayed  on  and  on, 
as  if  they  meant  to  die  there ;  the  tradespeople  served 
with  zeal  the  great  lady  who  was  always  civil  to  them, 
and  nobody  suspected  that  Lady  Norah's  secret  of 
success  was  the  power  of  her  personality  over  others. 
She  was,  as  well  as  a  great  lady,  very  nearly  a  great 
woman  in  some  ways;  she  would  have  been  an  excel- 
lent Prime  Minister,  and  now,  after  ten  years  of 
smooth-running,  stay-at-home  life,  Christopher  Lambe 
decided  to  go  away. 

Speaking  aloud  to  himself,  as  was  his  habit,  he 
watched  the  sky  grow  rosy  with  dawn. 

"I  will  go,"  he  said,  "to  some  warm  country  that 
will  be  very  agreeable."  Then  after  a  short  pause  he 
made  his  way  down  the  long  flight  of  rickety  wooden 
steps  that  led  to  the  beach,  and  taking  off  his  clothes 
walked  into  the  sea.  There  was  something  curious  in 
the  way  he  approached  the  great  chilly  element  now 
beginning  to  glitter  and  dance  with  the  strength  of 
day;  he  made  no  pause,  took  no  plunge,  showed  no 
signs  of  the  usual  screwing  up  of  courage  as  the  water 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  3 

closed  over  his  warm  body ;  he  was  obviously  as  much 
at  his  ease  in  the  water  as  he  was  on  the  land.  Then 
he  swam.  Even  yet,  the  world  still  looked  empty ;  the 
fishermen's  boats,  drawn  up  high  on  the  sands,  were 
undisturbed  by  their  owners.  Nobody  stood  on  the 
sky  line,  the  great  world  seemed  to  belong  to  the  small 
man  swimming  by  himself. 

"Italy  or  Spain,"  he  said,  turning  on  his  back. 
"Morocco  is  full  of  people  who  write  books.  Beasts ! 
She  won't  mind;  it  will  be  rather  a  relief  to  her,  I 
should  think;  sometimes  I  will  come  and  visit  her.  I 
will  tell  her  at  breakfast."  Then  he  made  his  way 
slowly  back  to  the  shore  and  dressed.  The  church 
clock  struck  in  the  distance.  His  hair,  standing  up 
on  his  head,  giving  him  a  peculiarly  wild  appearance, 
Lambe  returned  to  his  house.  It  had  a  fine  fa9ade, 
there  was  an  air  about  it  of  ripe  repose  and  dignity. 
There  was  in  its  stately  lines  none  of  the  picturesque 
air  of  the  subtle  decay,  of  the  dying  away  of  the 
old  order  of  things  that  enhances  the  beauty  of 
Jacobean  or  Elizabethan  houses.  It  stood  there, 
strong  and  steadfast,  a  healthy,  middle-aged  man 
among  houses;  to  carry  out  the  simile  further,  if 
houses  were  men,  Lambe  House  was  a  sedate  wearer 
of  a  full-bottomed  wig.  It  was  surrounded  by  fine 
old  trees ;  it  was  approached  by  a  terrace  on  which  at 
regular  intervals  stood  ugly  stone  urns  now  ablaze 
with  scarlet  flowers.  To  the  left  was  a  sunken  fruit 
garden.  Beyond  the  house,  out  of  sight  from  where 
he  stood,  but  present  to  his  inward  eye,  there  was  an 
ancient  carp  pond,  relic  of  an  earlier  edifice.  There 


4  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

was  an  Italian  garden  with  statues,  there  was  a  sun- 
dial, and  on  the  terrace,  in  stately  pavane,  walked 
peacocks  pranking  in  the  sun.  Nothing  was  new, 
nothing  too  obviously  costly,  nothing  gaudy.  A  very 
perfect  specimen  of  its  kind,  breathing  an  air  of 
stately  comfort. 

Christopher  Lambe  looked  down  at  his  own  small 
figure  with  a  kind  of  whimsical  disdain. 

"Too  good  for  the  likes  of  me,  much  too  good.  I 
rattle  round  in  it,  it's  too  big."  Then  he  went  to 
his  study  and  partook  of  milk  and  fruit,  after  which 
he  slept  for  two  hours  on  the  only  shabby  piece  of 
furniture  in  the  house,  an  old  brown  leather  sofa, 
which  for  some  reason  he  loved  and  had  always  re- 
fused to  have  recovered. 

******* 

Lady  Norah  came  down  the  broad  staircase  with  an 
opulent  rustle  of  silken  petticoats,  a  tall,  broad  woman 
with  quantities  of  silky  black  hair  and  a  healthy  red 
and  brown  complexion.  Behind  her,  marching  at  a 
distance  of  about  three  steps  apart,  the  three  Misses 
Lambe.  Miss  Lambe,  Sylvia,  was  eight;  the  next 
one,  Susan,  nearly  seven,  and  Daffy,  the  next,  was 
five.  They  wore  holland  frocks,  their  knees  were  bare, 
they  looked  as  if  they  smelt  of  soap,  they  looked 
healthy,  obedient  and  hungry. 

"Now,  Daphne,"  began  Lady  Norah  as  the  last 
child  landed  safely  on  the  rug  at  the  foot  of  the 
slippery  stairs,  "call  father." 

Daphne,  who,  compared  with  the  pearly  whiteness 
of  her  sisters,  looked  much  like  a  coffee  bean,  stumped 


away  to  the  study  door  and  pounded  on  its  lower 
panels,  the  only  ones  she  could  reach. 

"Hello !"  shouted  Lambe  from  within. 

"B'kfast,"  bellowed  Daffy  in  close  imitation  of  his 
tone.  Then  the  father  of  the  family,  his  hair  now 
carefully  brushed,  joined  his  wife  with  an  absent- 
minded  "good  morning,"  and  the  quartet  went  in  to 
breakfast.  The  little  girls  had  perfect  manners  of 
the  "speak-when-you-are-spoken-to"  kind.  Lady 
Norah,  it  was  plain,  did  not  believe  in  individuality, 
so  that  the  three  children,  who,  judging  from  their 
faces,  must  have  been  quite  unlike  each  other,  did 
throughout  the  meal  precisely  the  same  thing,  in  pre- 
cisely the  same  manner,  at  precisely  the  same  instant. 
They  were  allowed  jelly,  not  jam,  because  Lady 
Norah  believed  that  seeds  were  bad  for  insides.  They 
had  brown  bread  for  their  teeth,  drank  milk  for  their 
complexions,  ate  soft  boiled  eggs — very  soft — to 
make  blood,  and  when  the  meal  was  over  each  had  a 
large  dose  out  of  a  brown  bottle,  the  contents  of  which 
were  supposed  to  be  helpful  to  the  development  of 
bone  in  the  young.  Then  each  child  made  a  curtsey 
and,  headed  by  Sylvia,  they  marched  solemnly  out  of 
the  room. 

"They  look  very  well,  don't  they?"  remarked  Lady 
Norah  as  the  door  closed. 

"Very,"  assented  Lambe  absently.  "Poor  little 
things." 

"Why  poor?"  she  asked. 

He  started.  "I  don't  know,  I'm  sure,  it — it  oc- 
curred to  me.  I  wonder  you  don't  crop  their  ears." 


6  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Lady  Norah  smiled  tolerantly. 

"You  really  are  too  absurd,  Christopher." 

"I  know  I  am,  that  is  why — I  mean  to  say — look 
here,  Norah,  I  have  been  thinking." 

Again  she  smiled,  and  one  saw  that  her  attitude 
toward  her  husband  was  one  of  amused  tolerance. 

"Have  you?"  she  set  down  her  coffee  cup  and 
leaned  toward  him,  her  placid  face  framed  by  the 
silver  of  the  coffee  and  tea  services.  Lambe  watched 
her  for  a  minute  in  silence. 

"Well,  I  have  been  thinking.  I  think  I  will  go 
away." 

"Yes,  why  don't  you  ?"  she  agreed  pleasantly.  "You 
look  a  little  seedy ;  a  change  might  do  you  good.  Why 
don't  you  run  over  to  Paris  for  a  few  days?" 

"Paris  in  September?" 

He  ran  his  fingers  through  his  damp  hair  so  that 
it  stood  on  end.  "My  dear ! — besides,  I  don't  want  to 
get  into  mischief,  and  I  always  get  into  mischief  in 
Paris." 

"Of  course.  I  thought  that  is  why  you  went.  We 
have  always  lived  through  it,  even  the  snake  charmer." 

Lambe  blushed  a  helpless  blush,  a  boyish  crimson 
blush  that  glazed  his  eyes  for  a  minute. 

"That  isn't  what  I  mean,"  he  stammered.  "I  don't 
want  to  get  into  mischief ;  I  am  really  a  very  respect- 
able man ;  but  I  want  to  go  away.  I  am  tired  of  all 
this." 

"You  don't  mean  that  you  are  tired  of  Lambe 
House?" 

"Yes,  I  am." 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  7, 

"You  want  to  go  to  town?"  she  looked  like  the 
Goddess  of  Reason  herself,  nice,  comfortable  British 
reason,  as  she  continued  to  peer  at  him  through  the 
silver. 

"You  are  always  so  sensible,  Norah.  What  I  mean 
is — you  wouldn't  mind  very  much —  No,  I  don't  want 
to  go  to  London.  You  wouldn't  mind  very  much  if  I 
went  away  for  good,  would  you?" 

Of  course  she  repeated  his  words. 

"If  you  went  away  for  good?" 

"Yes." 

"You  mean  leave  home  and  the  children?" 

Again  he  said  "yes,"  watching  her  with  a  mild 
degree  of  anxiety  that  to  an  onlooker  would  have 
seemed  ludicrously  disproportionate  to  the  situation. 
There  was  a  pause.  Then  Lady  Norah  rose  and  went 
to  the  window.  She  stood  for  some  moments  with  her 
back  to  the  room,  then  at  last  she  turned. 

"I  am  sorry,  Christopher,"  she  said  slowly,  her  face 
very  hard.  "I  seem  to  have  failed,  somehow.  Of 
course  you  will  do  as  you  like."  She  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  H 

IT  IS  impossible  that  the  Lambe  children  should 
have  felt  anything  of  the  electric  disturbance  in 
the  atmosphere  of  their  home  that  day.  They 
went  through  their  regular  routine  as  usual. 

Miss  Ruggles,  their  governess,  imparted  to  them 
their  daily  modicum  of  pre-digested  educational 
knowledge;  they  had  their  usual  hygienic  lunch  at 
one  o'clock,  their  usual  walk  after  lunch.  Lady  Norah 
would  have  felt  herself  criminal  had  she  allowed  any 
upset  of  her  own  feelings  to  cause  disturbance  in  the 
life  of  her  children. 

But  in  spite  of  these  things  it  so  happened  that 
that  day  was  destined  to  be  the  first  day  that  Daphne 
Lambe  could  in  later  life  recall,  because  that  after- 
noon took  place  an  adventure  never  to  be  forgotten 
by  her. 

Three  o'clock  found  the  quartet  on  the  sands  at 
the  foot  of  the  cliff;  Miss  Ruggles  under  an  um- 
brella was  regaling  herself  with  Sir  Robert  Ball's 
"Story  of  the  Heavens,"  while  the  three  children, 
bare-legged  and  be-trousered,  paddled  in  the  sea. 

Miss  Ruggles  was  a  brave  woman,  a  woman  of  char- 
acter ;  the  strength  of  her  mind  may  be  established  by 
the  bare  statement  of  the  fact  that  she  had  never  men- 
tioned to  Lady  Norah  during  her  three  years  of  resi- 

8 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  9 

dence  that  her  late  father  had  been  a  rural  dean  and 
her  mother  the  niece  of  a  baronet.  The  bravest  of  us 
has  a  weak  point  somewhere.  Miss  Ruggles's  weak 
point  was  a  vast,  overwhelming,  and  unconquerable 
terror  of  dentists,  and  she  had  a  hollow  tooth,  and 
the  hollow  tooth  had  a  live  nerve,  so  that  sunny  after- 
noon treated  her  to  a  vivid  forecast  of  the  pleasures  of 
the  Inferno.  Sir  Robert  Ball,  to  put  it  mildly,  was 
unappreciated. 

"Don't  go  in  too  far,  Daffy;  don't  let  her  fall 
down,  Sylvia.  Oh,  dear !  Oh,  dear !" 

The  agony  was  intense.  Daffy,  who  came  scamper- 
ing back  for  her  spade,  was  struck  by  the  expression 
of  the  sufferer's  face. 

"Is  it  bad?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  Daffy,"  cried  the  poor  woman,  her  eyes  boil- 
ing over,  "it  is  dreadful." 

Daffy  scratched  her  left  leg  with  her  right  big  toe. 

"Why  don't  you  take  another  pill?"  she  suggested. 

"I  cannot,  dear,  it  would  make  me  go  to  sleep." 

Daffy  rejoined  her  sisters,  and  they  began  a  long 
wall  of  sand  which  was  to  keep  down  the  ocean  and 
guarantee  eternal  dryness  to  the  upper  half  of  the 
beach.  Presently  Lambe,  a  pipe  in  his  mouth,  came 
aimlessly  down  the  steps.  He  had  no  particular  air  of 
wishing  to  come  down  the  steps ;  it  seemed  merely  that 
he  had  less  objection  to  it  than  to  going  anywhere 
else.  He  was  drifting  as  usual.  Presently  he  drifted 
to  where  the  governess  sat. 

"Headache?"  he  asked  pleasantly. 

To  her  own  surprise,  Miss  Ruggles  broke  down  and 


10  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

confessed  to  the  hollow  tooth.  Lambe  sympathized 
with  her  feelings  regarding  dentists,  but  when  he  sug- 
gested medicine  and  she  explained  that  if  she  took  it 
she  would  inevitably  go  to  sleep,  he  ordered  her  good 
naturedly  to  go  to  sleep.  "You  look  as  if  you  needed 
it,"  he  added,  "I  will  take  care  of  the  children." 

Ruggles  wavered;  she  knew  she  was  contemplating 
a  crime,  but  the  tooth  raged  and  bliss  was  in  her 
pocket  in  a  little  Burroughs  and  Wellcome  bottle. 

"You  are  sure  you  don't  mind?"  she  faltered,  al- 
though that  wasn't  in  the  least  her  real  scruple.  "If  I 
could  sleep  for  just  half  an  hour  I  should  be 
better." 

"Mind?  Of  course  I  don't,"  said  Lambe,  feeling, 
now  that  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to  leave  them,  rather 
drawn  toward  his  offspring.  "You  go  to  sleep.  There, 
I  will  put  your  shawl  over  you."  Very  gently  he  cov- 
ered her,  put  the  umbrella  over  her  recumbent  head, 
and  after  looking  at  her  for  a  moment,  walked  away 
to  the  right,  his  head  absolutely  empty  of  all  thoughts 
of  his  children.  He  would  probably  have  walked  on 
for  hours  had  not  Daffy  spied  him  and  shouted  to  him 
in  stentorian  tones  peculiarly  her  own,  that  there  they 
were.  Six  dripping  bare  legs  sparkled  across  the 
sands  and  a  short  council  was  held. 

"Like  to  come  for  a  walk?"  he  said. 

Sylvia,  a  remarkably  beautiful  child  of  the  blue- 
eyed  angel  type,  shook  her  head. 

"Oh,  no,  father;  mother  scolds  so  when  you  forget 
us." 

"Well,  what  shall  we  do,  then?    I  was  going  for  a 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  11 

swim,  but — "  he  hesitated.  "Suppose  I  take  you  for 
a  row?" 

Poor  Ruggles  under  her  umbrella  at  this  period 
heard  in  her  dream  a  ripple  of  delighted  laughter  and 
the  clapping  of  small  wet  hands,  but  she  didn't  see  the 
boat  dragged  down  the  sands  or  the  gay  embarking  of 
the  little  party,  and  she  dreamed  on  in  peace. 

It  was  a  beautiful  afternoon.  Daffy  always  re- 
membered the  blueness  of  the  sky.  The  whole  world, 
drenched  in  sunshine,  seemed  blue  and  gold,  like  a 
gorgeous  banner,  and  dear  father  was  so  pleasant. 
All  children  liked  him,  vague  though  he  was,  and  his 
own  children,  without  the  slightest  spark  of  proper 
filial  feeling,  liked  him  as  well;  he,  for  his  own 
part,  was  proud  of  them.  They  belonged,  he  felt, 
really  belonged  to  the  fine  old  house,  to  the  fine  old 
grounds. 

The  two  elder  girls  sat  in  the  stern  and  at  their 
feet,  apart  from  them  as  always,  crouched  Daffy, 
browner  than  ever  in  the  brilliant  sun.  How  two 
children  with  the  same  father  and  mother  could  be, 
beautiful  and  the  third  one  nearly  ugly  would  have 
puzzled  most  people,  but  it  did  not  puzzle  Christopher 
Lambe,  because  nothing  ever  did.  Susan,  the  second 
child,  less  lovely  than  Sylvia,  would  have  been  in  any 
other  family  remarkably  handsome.  Daffy's  hair  was 
straight  and  black  and  her  little  frame  without  any 
of  the  obvious  chubby  charms  of  her  age.  She  was 
perfectly  well,  but  she  was  very  thin  and  she  had  a 
velvety  brown  mole  on  her  right  cheek  where  the  other 
two  children  had  dimples. 


12  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Away  they  went,  over  the  blue  waters,  in  an  almost 
complete  silence.  Rowing  was  pleasant  exercise  to 
Lambe ;  his  eyes  fixed  absently  on  the  pretty  picture 
before  him,  he  pulled  away  for  nearly  an  hour.  Sylvia 
was  asleep,  her  arms  around  Susan.  Susan  was  eating 
chocolate.  Daffy  was  doing  nothing,  her  brown  eyes 
fixed  on  the  sky  over  her  father's  shoulder. 

It  was  very  warm  now  and  the  water  looked  tempt- 
ing. Lambe  had  no  sense  of  decorum  of  his  own,  but 
his  wife's  was  very  present  to  him,  so  before  he 
stripped  he  made  Daffy  turn  round  and  ordered  Susan, 
supporting  her  sleeping  sister,  to  close  her  eyes.  He 
stood  for  a  moment  on  the  edge  of  the  boat  and  then 
jumped  overboard.  He  was  a  splendid  swimmer  and 
it  was  very  pleasant  after  the  heat  of  rowing. 

"May  we  open  our  eyes  now?"  screamed  Susan,  for 
he  had  quite  forgotten  his  embargo;  he  was  out  of 
earshot.  Daffy,  who  was  severely  logical,  opened  her 
eyes  the  minute  he  was  in  the  water. 

"Of  course  you  may,"  she  said.  "Susan,  are  you 
sleepy?" 

"I  am,"  returned  Susan  slowly. 

"So  am  I." 

The  boat  drifted  and  caught  in  a  strong  current 
and  the  three  children  slept,  Daffy  stretched  on  her 
face  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat.  When  she  awoke  it 
was  to  the  sound  of  tears.  Susan  was  sobbing. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  the  littlest. 

"I  want  to  go  home,"  explained  Susan,  between 
loud  sniffs.  To  this  day  Susan  Lambe's  tears  are 
larger  and  wetter  than  other  people's. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  13 

Daffy  sat  up  and  looked  about  her.  Where  was  the 
sun?  Above  the  horizon  the  smallest  possible  wedge 
of  gold  was  rapidly  disappearing,  sliding  down  into 
the  sea  with  terrific  haste,  like  a  malignant  elder  hiding 
from  children. 

"Where's  father?"  asked  Daffy. 

The  other  children  did  not  know. 

"He's  gone,"  said  Sylvia  calmly.  She  had  little 
imagination  and  an  almost  Napoleonic  power  of  sleep. 
"He's  forgot,"  she  added  solemnly.  Father  had  so 
often  forgotten!  Indeed,  to  forget  was  one  of  his 
chief  occupations  in  life.  Even  poor  little  Daffy  could 
remember  several  of  the  occasions  on  which  his  for- 
getting had  been  disastrous  to  some  one  of  his  family. 
Had  he  not  taken  the  two  elder  girls  for  a  walk  that 
very  spring  and  lost  them  while  they  stopped  to  gather 
flowers,  going  his  way  in  bland  forgetfulness  of  them 
and  returning  home  by  a  short  cut  and  calling  for 
them  cheerfully  as  he  entered  the  house? 

"Oh,  Sylvia,"  sniffed  Susan,  "do  you  think  he'll 
come  back  for  us?" 

"Course  he  won't,"  declared  Daffy  firmly.  "I — I 
wonder  what  time  it  is?" 

Sylvia  laughed  and  nudged  the  tearful  Susan. 

"Susie,  dear,"  she  lisped,  "Daffy's  going  to  be 
afraid!" 

At  this  bit  of  good  news  Susan,  whose  small  char- 
acter already  bore  signs  of  a  kind  of  malignant  mis- 
chief that  distinguished  her  later  in  life,  dried  her 
eyes. 

"O — o— oh !"  she  said  in  a  long  drawn-out  syllable 


14  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

that  for  some  reason  struck  terror  to  Daffy's  soul. 
"It'll  be  dark  soon." 

Daffy  cast  a  quick  look  over  the  darkling  waters 
and  edged  nearer  her  relatives. 

"It's — vewy  early,"  she  retorted  aggressively, 
struggling  with  the  "r." 

"It's  going  to  be  dark  soon,"  repeated  Susan.  Her 
gray-blue  eyes  gleamed  as  Daffy's  mouth  went  down 
at  the  corners.  Daffy  was  not  a  brave  child,  and 
though  constant  teasing  had  given  her  an  unusual 
amount  of  self-control,  she  feared  the  dark,  as  much 
as  her  mother  would  have  approved  her  fearing  the 
devil,  and  her  terror  was  uncombatable  by  either  her- 
self or  others,  for  it  was  born  with  her. 

"Sylvia,  I  want  to  sit  near  you,"  the  child  saicl 
slowly. 

Sylvia  moved  and  made  room  for  her  in  the  stern 
sheets ;  she  was  as  utterly  without  Susan's  malice  as  she 
was  without  Susan's  brains,  and  she  was  sorry  for  the 
little  thing  with  the  fixed,  terror-stricken  brown  eyes. 

But  as  Daffy  clambered  to  the  place  made  for  her, 
Susan  gave  a  loud  scream. 

"Oh,  sit  down,  Daffy — you'll  upset  the  boat  and 
the  mermaids  will  eat  us !" 

Daffy  dropped  where  she  stood.  The  cannabalistic 
trait  of  mermaids  was  well  known  to  her,  and  loneliness 
in  the  dark  was  better  than  being  eaten  by  finny  peo- 
ple with  long  hair. 

The  boat,  which  had  been  caught  in  a  strong  cur- 
rent, floated  rapidly  seaward,  and  the  three  children 
sat  silent. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  15 

Sylvia,  with  her  usual  philosophy,  went  to  sleep 
again.  Susan,  who  in  her  joy  at  Daffy's  terror  had 
nearly  forgotten  her  own,  was  wondering  where  her 
father  was,  and  Daffy  was  watching  the  darkening  of 
the  sky  with  a  stoicism  very  great  in  one  so  young  and 
small.  None  of  the  three  was,  it  is  to  be  observed,  at 
all  surprised  by  their  father's  non-appearance.  No 
idea  that  those  same  man-eating  mermaids  might  even 
then  be  sharpening  their  teeth  on  his  bones  occurred 
to  them.  Father  had  forgotten;  it  was  perfectly 
simple;  and  they  were  right. 

Christopher  Lambe,  who  had  swam  easily  to  a  little 
promontory  that  extended  half  a  mile  seaward  from 
just  south  of  the  village  near  which  he  lived,  sat  in 
the  lea  of  a  boat,  drying  himself  with  handfuls  of  hot 
sand.  He  was  rather  puzzled  at  first  about  his  abso- 
lute lack  of  clothes,  but  the  children  had  quite  gone 
out  of  his  head  and  he  whistled  as  he  rubbed  himself. 
It  was  warm  and  pleasant. 

"Funny  what  I've  done  with  my  clothes,"  he  said 
aloud,  pausing  in  his  operatic  selection.  "Damn  bad 
memory  I've  got — "  and  then  suddenly  he  ducked 
behind  the  boat. 

Miss  Ruggles  was  advancing  on  him  from  the  other 
side,  her  umbrella  moving  agitatedly  over  her  head,  on 
which  her  hideous  gray  straw  hat  sat  with  no  regard 
whatever  for  symmetry. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Lambe,"  she  quavered,  "where  are  you? 
I  heard  you  whistling." 

"Go  away,  Miss  Ruggles,"  he  answered,  looking  at 
her  over  the  green  bottom  of  the  "Saucy  Liz," 


16  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"Go  away!    But—" 

"Yes,  yes.  You  really  mustn't  come  round  to  this 
side." 

Poor  Ruggles's  face  had  swollen  during  her  nap 
and  gave  her  a  dissipated  air  strangely  foreign  to  her 
prim  nature.  She  wasn't  in  the  least  afraid  of  her 
employer's  husband — who  was? — and  in  her  alarm 
utterly  disregarded  his  remark. 

"I  must  know,"  she  panted,  pursuing  him  round  his 
barricade,  "where — " 

Suddenly  he  leaned  over  the  boat  shaking  with 
laughter. 

"/  shouldn't  mind,  you  know,"  he  said,  his  thin  nose 
wrinkling  absurdly,  "but  you  would.  I'm — I'm 
mother-naked,  Miss  Ruggles." 

Miss  Ruggles  sat  down  suddenly.  Nakedness  to 
her  was  as  strange  and  horrible  as  the  mysteries  of 
Hell. 

From  behind  the  boat  came  Lambe's  still  uneven 
voice. 

"I  am  very  sorry,"  he  said  kindly.  "I  didn't  want 
to  shock  you.  Where  are  you?" 

"I'm — I'm  here,  Mr.  Lambe;  please  put  on  your 
clothes  at  once." 

"Bless  her!  Oh,  dear  me,  bless  her!  How  can  I 
dress  when  my  clothes  are  God  knows  where?" 

The  stricken  woman,  using  the  broadest  part  of  her 
spread,  middle-aged  person  as  a  pivot,  wheeled  round 
and  faced  the  sea.  She  was  weak  with  pain  and  drugs, 
and  felt  queer. 

"Have  you  been  robbed?"  she  asked  faintly. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  IT 

Lambe,  still  immensely  tickled  by  the  joke,  burst 
out  laughing  again. 

"No,  I've  been  swimming." 

Then  she  found  her  wits.  "Where,"  she  asked  in  a 
voice  the  loudness  of  which  was  intended  to  convey  to 
herself  as  well  as  to  him  the  knowledge  that,  if  he  was 
unashamed,  she  was  unafraid,  "where  are  the  little 
girls?" 

Poor  Lambe.  His  horror  and  remorse  were  very 
poignant.  Abjectly  from  behind  the  boat  he  confessed 
the  truth.  And  then,  as  Miss  Ruggles  for  the  first 
time  in  her  dull  life  nearly  fainted,  he  swore  at  his 
clothesless  condition.  "I  can't  come  out  to  help  you, 
so  you  mustn't  faint,"  he  warned  her,  but  her  mauve 
lips  were  now  ashen  as  he  peered  round  at  her.  "For 
God's  sake,  Miss  Ruggles,"  he  said,  "don't  faint.  If 
you  do  I'll  come — I — I'm  coming  now!" 

Miss  Ruggles  was  frightened  out  of  her  wits,  and 
with  a  tremendous  effort  controlled  her  feelings.  A 
moment  later  she  was  hurrying  back  to  the  village, 
leaving  her  shawl  and  umbrella  with  Lambe.  When 
she  had  gone  he  twisted  the  shawl  round  his  loins,  and 
the  umbrella  shielding  him  from  the  sun,  he  scampered 
up  the  path  to  the  nearest  cottage. 


CHAPTER  in 

MEANTIME  the  boat  had  drifted  seaward 
and  night  at  length  really  came.  For 
beauty  and  mystery  the  approach  of  night 
on  land  cannot  be  compared  to  the  ap- 
proach of  night  on  the  open  sea.  When  the  light  goes, 
whence  comes  the  dark,  no  one  can  see,  for  there  are 
no  shadows.  The  rosy  sky  hushed  itself  to  gray  and 
the  gray  sky  drew  close  down  over  the  gray  waters. 
There  was  no  moon.  The  gray  deepened  in  tone  and 
the  air  in  chill. 

Suddenly  Sylvia  shivered  and  woke,  her  teeth  chat- 
tering. 

"Oh,  Fm  so  cold!    Are  you  asleep,  Susan?" 

Susan  shook  her  head.  "I  am  going  to  fleeze  to 
death,"  she  declared.  A  Chinese  difficulty  regarding 
the  letters  "1"  and  "r"  were  the  great  Susan's  only 
concession  to  childish  things  in  the  matter  of  speech. 

"You  mustn't  freeze,  Sue,  dear,"  answered  Sylvia, 
hugging  her  hand. 

"Yes,  I  shall,  like  Hobbs's  old  horse.  And  then," 
she  went  on,  peering  through  the  darkness  at  the  silent 
Daffy,  "the  mermaids  will  crawl  up  and  craw-claw 
me  down  into  the  water,  and — Daffy  knows  what 
they'll  do  to  me." 

But  Daffy  made  no  sign  of  having  heard.  Presently 
18 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  19 

she  mpved  restlessly  about  for  a  moment  and  Sylvia 
found  herself  covered  with  a  thick,  clammy  some- 
thing. 

"Father's  coat,"  announced  Daffy.  The  two  elder 
children  pulled  it  close  round  them,  and  comforted  by 
its  gradual  warmth,  went  to  sleep  in  each  other's  arms. 
They  were  not  afraid.  Alone,  in  the  middle  of  the 
boat,  her  fog-drenched  frock  clinging  to  her,  Daffy 
was  greatly  afraid  and  trembled.  She  feared  the 
night,  the  cold,  the  hungry  mermaids,  and  most  of  all, 
her  own  hideous  past.  A  list  of  Daphne  Lambe's 
faults  at  the  age  of  six  would  have  appalled  the  head 
of  a  boys'  reformatory.  She  was  a  coward,  she  was  a 
liar,  she  was  a  thief.  She  was  afraid  of  dogs,  of  very 
large  cats,  of  bats,  of  mice,  of  the  second  footman, 
whose  chin  was  blue,  of  a  horrible  noise  a  certain  win- 
dow in  the  passage  near  the  nursery  made  when  it  was 
stormy;  of  mermaids,  of  having  her  legs  pinched  by 
armless  hands  as  she  went  upstairs  after  sunset,  of 
the  dark.  She  lied,  when  asked  if  she  was  afraid, 
lied,  as  the  saying  goes,  "up  and  down."  And  lying, 
that  immortal  proverb  about  the  best  policy  to  the  con- 
trary notwithstanding,  was  in  her  case  a  comforting 
and  profitable  thing,  inasmuch  as  it  prevented  Susan's 
even  approaching  to  comprehension  of  her  younger 
sister's  facility  for  being  tortured. 

As  to  thieving,  no  magpie  was  worse  than  the 
youngest  Miss  Lambe.  She  had  in  a  high  hollow  in  a 
tree  that  only  she  could  climb,  a  beautiful  cache  in 
which  lay,  now  half  forgotten,  a  heterogeneous  collec- 
tion comprising  the  thefts  of  a  lifetime.  Daffy  knew 


20  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

that  stealing  was  wrong,  but  its  joys  decidedly  out- 
weighed its  powers  of  conscience  troubling. 

Apples  rotted  contentedly  down  in  the  long  hollow, 
cheek-by-jowl  with  Susan's  scarlet  knitted  bed  shoes 
and  nurse's  original  set  of  false  teeth,  purloined  from 
a  glass  of  water  which,  grinning  at  her  in  the  moon- 
light, had  roused  the  child's  wrath  and  desire  for  re- 
venge. A  shell-box  with  a  strip  of  mirror  inset  in  its 
lid  (taken  from  Sylvia's  treasures  after  Sylvia  had 
broken  one  of  her  cadette's  dolls)  had  gone  in  next,  a 
bottle  of  rhubarb  mixture  that  was  not  appreciated  in 
the  nursery,  a  plaid  sash  of  her  own  that  she  hated — 
there  were  many  things  in  the  hollow  tree,  and  the 
remarkable  part  of  it  all  is  that  no  one  suspected  the 
little  girl  of  being  the  thief.  Silent  people  enjoy  a 
great  natural  immunity  from  suspicion,  and  Daffy 
was  very  silent. 

Her  crimes  lay  lightly  on  her  conscience  as  a  rule, 
but  now,  in  the  boat,  cold,  hungry  and  in  terror  of  the 
night,  they  passed  in  hideous  array  before  her  tightly 
closed  eyes  and  added  much  anguish  to  her  tortured 
little  mind.  The  fact  that  mere  common  sense  con- 
vinced her  that  to  the  hungry  mermaids  her  own 
meager  little  carcass  would  appeal  much  less  than  the 
dimpled  flesh  of  her  sisters,  did  not  help  to  any  great 
extent.  Her  turn  would  come.  And  then,  dead,  she 
would  be  judged,  and  God  was,  she  had  gathered  from 
her  mother  and  Miss  Ruggles,  an  implacable  Person, 
with  a  peculiar  loathing  for  naughty  little  English 
maidens. 

She  coughed.  The  fog  was  very  thick  now  and  the 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  21 

darkness  seemed  palpable.  It  must  have  been  days  and 
days  since  father  had  swum  blithely  away  from  them 
in  the  sun.  The  sun  seemed  a  beautiful  dream ;  noth- 
ing was  real  but  cold  and  darkness. 

She  coughed  again,  and  Susan  woke  up.  Now, 
Susan  was  a  person  who  paid  the  greatest  attention  to 
her  own  symptoms  and  emotions.  Being  a  trifle 
frightened,  a  trifle  cold  and  very  hungry,  she  began 
to  lament  loudly,  proclaiming  her  sufferings  as  though 
they  were  unique  in  the  annals  of  the  world. 

And  Sylvia,  always  led  by  her  immediate  junior, 
joined  in  her  plaint.  They  wept  huge,  wet  tears,  their 
little  noses  stopped,  their  voices  became  nasal,  and 
thus  they  helped  each  other  to  a  condition  of  utter 
misery.  Daffy  listened  stonily  for  a  while  and  then 
tried  to  comfort  them.  It  wasn't  so  vewy  dark,  she 
told  them,  and  they  had  father's  coat. 

But  the  afflicted  ones  continued  to  cry  and  the  really 
terrified  Daffy  subsided  into  silence,  hugging  her 
knees  and  wishing  she  wasn't  a  damned  soul.  Sud- 
denly out  of  the  fog  came  a  sound,  a  long  cooee.  Then 
"Hallo— who's  there?" 

The  wailing  ceased. 

"Is  any  one  there?"  went  on  the  voice,  a  man's. 

"Scream,  Daffy,"  commanded  Susan  suddenly. 
"Scream  hard." 

And  Daffy  screamed  hard,  so  hard  that  a  great 
laugh  answered  her,  and  a  moment  later  a  light  ap- 
peared on  their  port  bow  and  a  huge  bulk  behind  it. 

"Children,  by  God !"  said  the  man's  voice.  A  min- 
ute later  and  their  little  boat  lay  close  to  the  Heaven- 


22  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

reaching  side  of  a  fishing  smack  and  a  man  came  down 
a  rope  and  got  into  their  boat. 

"You  poor  little  things,"  he  said  gently  as  the  boat 
swayed  under  his  weight.  "Who  are  you  and  how  in 
Heaven's  name  did  you  get  here?" 

He  turned  the  light  of  a  lantern  on  them  and  Daffy 
saw  the  great  kindness  in  his  blue  eyes. 

"Come  along,  I'll  lift  you  up.    Come,  little  one." 

He  made  as  if  to  take  Daffy,  but  she  waved  him 
aside. 

"Take  them  first,"  a  touch  of  disdain  in  her  baby 
voice,  "they  are  afraid."  This  was  her  delicate  re- 
venge. 

The  man — he  was  a  very  young  man,  with  a  tiny 
mustache,  like  a  canary's  wing  feather — obeyed  with 
a  laugh. 

"Servo  suo,  Maesta,"  he  murmured  softly,  and  took 
Sylvia  into  his  arms.  "You  lovely  little  creature,"  he 
said,  looking  down  at  her  in  the  lantern  light.  "Who 
are  you?" 

Sylvia  curled  her  arm  about  his  neck  and  smiled  at 
him,  her  dimpled,  lovely  smile  that  was  bewildering 
even  then.  But  she  did  not  answer.  Some  one  else 
would  do  that. 

"We  are  Mr.  Lambe's  little  girls,"  announced  Susan 
alertly. 

The  young  man  then  conferred  briefly  with  some 
invisible  person  on  the  smack  and  Sylvia  was  swung 
up  into  other  arms.  The  young  man  laughed  and 
stretched  his  arms.  The  fairy  was  fairly  heavy  to 
lift  up  at  arm's  length.  Susan,  beautiful  too,  but 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  23 

minus  the  bewildering  quality,  went  next.  Then  he 
turned  to  the  aged  person  who  had  told  him  to  pass 
her  over. 

"Come  on,  old  lady.  Well,  upon  my  word,  you  are 
the  littlest  of  the  lot !  How  old  are  you?" 

"I  am  nearly  six."  She  was  very  small  and  very 
light,  and  he  could  feel  her  bones  under  the  drenched 
linen. 

"They  evidently  starve  this  one,"  he  reflected  as  he 
gave  her  over  to  the  waiting  arms  above.  Suddenly 
she  turned  and  an  enormously  stentorian  voice  came 
down  to  him  in  accents  of  command. 

"Boy,"  it  called,  "don't  forget  father's  clothes?' 

Hughie  Gunning  burst  out  laughing. 

"Right,"  he  answered,  gathering  up  the  garments. 
"But  what  have  you  done  with  father?" 

But  when  after  securing  the  little  boat  to  the  stern 
of  the  smack  and  following  his  guests  up  over  the 
side  he  joined  them  in  the  tiny  cabin,  he  saw  that 
his  jocularity  was  misplaced.  The  Ladies  Lambe  were 
not  j  ocular.  Susan  explained  gravely  that  their  father 
had  gone  for  a  swim  and  forgotten  them,  and 
before  he  could  reply  Sylvia  added,  "And  we  are  so 
hungry." 

Gunning,  who  had  been  out  after  herring,  produced 
for  them  such  food  as  he  had,  and  when  they  had  par- 
taken of  it  with  the  charming  unapologetic  greed  of 
the  very  young,  they  all  went  to  sleep. 

"Just  like  'im,  sir,"  explained  Job  Squirrell,  the 
fisherman,  "queer  in  the  head,  Mr.  Lambe  is,  they  say. 
She'll  be  frightened  enough  for  anybody,  poor  lady." 


24  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Young  Gunning  looked  meditatively  at  the  little 
trio. 

"Poor  wee  things,"  he  said.  "What  a  perfect  beauty 
the  biggest  one  is.  I  never  saw  such  eyes  in  my  life." 

Thus  came  the  three  Lambes  into  Hughie  Gun- 
ning's life.  They  have  not  left  it  yet. 


CHAPTER  IV 

FROM  the  moment  when  she  went  to  sleep  in 
the  little  cabin  of  the  fishing  smack  Daffy's 
memory  of  that  evening  became  more  or  less 
of  a  blank.     She  knew  vaguely  that  she  had 
been  carried  up  the  steps  and  across  the  downs  to  the 
house,  and  that  the  man  who  carried  her  smelt  of  fish. 
She  remembered  being  set  down  before  her  mother 
and  remorse-stricken  father  in  the  hall,  and  she  re- 
membered seeing  Sylvia  still  asleep  in  Hughie  Gun- 
ning's arms,  but  who  the  fishy-smelling  one  was  she 
did  not  know;  to  her  knowledge  she  never  saw  him, 
nor  did  she  learn  until  some  years  later. 

It  is  to  be  supposed  that  the  children  were  put  to 
bed  after  their  adventure,  and  any  one  who  knew  him 
could  easily  picture  poor  Christopher  Lambe's  grief 
and  remorse  over  his  unspeakable  carelessness.  Un- 
fortunately, however,  any  one  who  knew  him  could 
also  picture  the  beautiful,  radiant  smile  that  quite  sud- 
denly cut  short  his  lamentations  as  he  burst  out: 
"However,  thank  God,  they  are  safe  now.*' 
It  is  to  be  doubted  whether  Lambe  himself  ever  gave 
the  adventure  a  second  thought  except  when  reminded 
many  years  later  by  one  of  his  two  elder  girls  or 
Hughie  Gunning  himself.  Lambe's  misdemeanors  of 
the  kind  were  «o  frequent  that  he  was  thoroughly  used 

25 


26  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

to  them  and  accepted  them  with  the  same  philosophy 
with  which  a  man  might  accept  a  squint. 

Hughie  Gunning  never  forgot  a  single  detail  of  his 
introduction  to  the  three  Misses  Lambe.  He  could  al- 
ways shut  his  eyes  and  feel  the  enveloping  fog  on  his 
face,  the  easy  motion  of  the  old  smack,  the  smell  of 
the  bad  tobacco  James  Squirrell  was  smoking,  and 
then  hear  a  queer  little  sound  that  meant  the  presence 
of  somebody  abroad  on  the  great  sea  in  the  dangerous 
fog.  He  could  feel  himself  stretching  over  the  side 
into  the  night  calling  out,  and  he  always  recalled  with 
a  laugh  the  strange  and  awful  shriek  sent  to  him 
through  the  darkness  by  the  strong-lunged  Daffy,  and 
then  the  picture  of  the  three  poor  little  waifs  as  he 
saw  them  by  the  light  of  his  lantern,  Susan  and  Daffy 
being  in  the  picture  mere  attributes  to  the  marvelous 
seraph-like  beauty  of  Sylvia,  and  always,  always,  he 
could,  by  a  slight  effort  of  will,  recall  the  exact  feel- 
ing of  Sylvia's  little  warm  body  in  his  arms  and  the 
pressure  on  his  shoulder  where  she  laid  her  head.  To 
him  it  seemed  the  most  exquisite  trust  shown  by  a 
child  to  a  grown  person ;  as  a  matter  of  fact,  Sylvia 
would  at  that  moment  have  gone  to  sleep  with  her 
head  on  the  shoulder  of  a  polar  bear  if  one  had  hap- 
pened along.  Sylvia  was  sleepy. 

The  young  man,  who  was  himself  just  twenty,  had 
been  brought  up  in  Italy,  his  mother  having  chosen 
an  Italian  Marquis  as  her  second  husband.  The  Ital- 
ian Marquis  had  been  dead  for  some  years,  and  pretty, 
silly  Mabel  Gunning  was  still  living  in  the  ramshackle 
old  villa  near  Sorrento  where  she  had  passed  three 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  27 

years,  the  shortness  of  whose  duration  probably  had 
enabled  her  to  regard  them  as  the  happiest  of  her  life. 
Possibly  the  silliest  woman  who  ever  lived,  Mabel  Ac- 
quadolce  had  yet  had  the  sense  to  educate  her  boy  in  his 
own  country,  and  the  night  of  the  adventure  in  the 
fog  the  young  man  had  been  one  term  at  Cambridge 
and  was  spending  his  holiday  with  two  other  youths 
and  a  tutor  in  a  village  some  six  miles  up  the  coast 
from  where  the  Lambes  lived. 

Of  all  the  words  in  the  English  language,  perhaps 
the  two  most  mystery-filled  are  "if"  and  "but."  Think 
what  would  have  happened  to  the  world  if  Christ  had 
not  been  crucified.  If  Rome  had  not  declined  and 
fallen,  it  is  on  the  cards  that  we  should  this  day  all 
of  us  be  Roman  provincials.  If  Napoleon  had  won 
the  battle  of  Waterloo  who  can  say  what  would  have 
happened?  That  is  just  the  beauty  of  the  argument. 
"Who  can  say  if—" 

To  come  down  to  our  own  times  and  enter  for  a 
moment  the  political  ring,  where  shall  we  all  be  this 
time  fifty  years,  if  Mr.  Lloyd  George  and  his  sup- 
porters succeed  in  doing  away  with  the  Dukes  and  all 
the  other  nice  little  relics  of  mediaeval  times  which  lend 
a  picturesque  glamor  to  even  these  matter-of-fact 
days? 

The  afternoon  of  the  adventure  in  the  fog  Hughie 
Gunning  had  been  urged  by  one  of  his  friends  to  go 
with  him  to  Newhaven  to  meet  the  friend's  mother  and 
sister,  who  were  coming  back  from  the  continent.  Now 
Gunning  was  twenty,  he  was  a  reader  of  poetry,  he 
was  as  healthily  romantic  as  boys  of  twenty  ought  to 


28  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

be ;  he  was  tall,  strong,  good  to  look  upon,  and  he  was 
rich.  The  girl  he  should  have  gone  to  meet,  Miss 
Audrey  Bellingham,  was  eighteen,  what  her  brother 
called  "black  as  your  hat,"  dancing  black  eyes,  curly 
hair,  white  teeth  and  inspired  by  the  precocious  spirit 
of  the  most  abandoned  little  flirt  that  ever  lived.  She 
was  also,  it  must  be  observed,  very  poor,  and  her 
mother,  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Frederick  Bellingham,  was  a 
modern  huntress,  wily  and  patient,  and  what  she 
hunted  was  a  husband  for  her  daughter.  If  these  two 
young  people  had  met  it  is  more  than  probable,  con- 
sidering the  state  of  mind  Gunning  was  in,  that  he 
would  have  fallen  in  love  with  the  girl,  and  if  he  had 
done  that  it  is  nearly  a  certainty  that  the  Hon.  Mrs. 
Frederick  would  have  had  them  safely  tied  up  within 
three  months ;  but  for  some  reason  that  Gunning  loved 
later  to  describe  as  "fate,"  he  preferred  to  go  fishing, 
and  Mrs.  Frederick  and  her  girl,  unbaited  by  the 
presence  at  the  wharf  of  anything  more  promising 
than  Jimmy  Wilder,  who  had  goggle  eyes  and  eleven 
brothers  and  sisters,  took  the  boat  train  to  town  and, 
so  far  as  I  know,  never  even  met  the  young  man  who 
had  come  so  near  to  being  the  son-in-law  of  the  one 
and  the  husband  of  the  other.  If! 

And,  through  the  now  clear  night,  for  the  fog  had 
lifted,  Hughie  Gunning  went  his  way  over  the  downs, 
his  body  warmed  by  excellent  wine  and  food  the  sen- 
sible Lady  Norah  had  insisted  upon  his  taking,  his 
young  mind  ever  returning  to  the  thought  of  the  little 
child  he  had  carried  across  the  shingle,  up  the  steps 
and  over  the  downs  to  her  home.  It  is  to  be  hoped 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  29 

that  no  normal  youth  arrives  at  the  age  of  twenty 
without  dreaming  about  love,  and  probably  Hughie 
Gunning  had  had  his  dreams  like  any  other.  There 
had  been  a  girl  in  the  Hotel  Salsomaggiore  two 
years  before,  when  he  had  been  there  with  his  mother, 
to  whom  in  a  shy  and  undemonstrative  way  he  had 
been  very  devoted;  he  at  the  time  was  eighteen  and 
she  only  twenty-six. 

Then  there  was  a  girl  with  whom  he  played  tennis 
at  Cambridge,  to  possess  whose  photograph  he  would 
have  given  much.  Also  he  had  for  several  nights 
dreamed  of  a  beautiful  actress,  since  become  an  orna- 
ment to  the  peerage. 

But  these  dreamlets  were  without  particular  im- 
portance and  had  caused  him  no  pain  and  left  his 
mind  innocent  of  all  real  memories.  He  himself  was 
convinced  that  his  love  for  Sylvia  Lambe  began  that 
very  night  in  the  fog  the  instant  the  light  from  his 
lantern  fell  on  her  face.  In  all  events,  a  vivid  recol- 
lection of  that  moment  never  faded  from  his  mind. 
He  woke  up  the  next  morning  saying  to  himself,  "Dear 
little  thing,  dear  little  thing!"  and  a  few  days  later 
marched  over  the  downs,  ostensibly  to  call  on  Lady 
Norah,  in  reality  to  gratify  himself  by  a  glimpse  of 
his  small  enchantress,  the  memory  of  whom  was  con- 
stantly haunting  him.  He  found  her  asleep  in  a  ham- 
mock and  f  orebore  to  wake  her,  much  as  he  longed  to 
see  her  beautiful  eyes  open. 

Meantime  Christopher  Lambe  had  gone,  taking 
with  him  two  portmanteaux  and  leaving  behind  three 
large  packing  cases  filled  by  himself  with  some  of  his 


30  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

personal  belongings  and  which,  he  told  Lady  Norah, 
he  would  send  for  as  soon  as  he  knew  where  he  was 
going  to  be.  People  whose  minds  work  in  several 
directions  at  once,  people  who  are  capable  of  seeing 
several  views  of  any  given  situation,  will  probably  find 
Christopher  Lambe  utterly  incomprehensible;  those 
few  to  whom  is  vouchsafed  but  one  view  of  any  case, 
who  can,  so  to  speak,  hear  but  one  voice,  perceive  but 
one  guide  at  any  turning  point  in  life,  will  understand. 

It  had  come  to  Lambe  that  he  must  go  away,  so  he 
went;  to  him  it  was  perfectly  simple;  it  was  unbe- 
lievable to  him  that  other  people  should  not  under- 
stand or  should  yearn  for  those  long  explanations  the 
giving  or  receiving  of  which  made  life  to  him  a  hideous 
waste. 

He  had  told  his  wife ;  other  people  would  know,  of 
course,  but  through  her;  she  would  do  all  the  telling 
and  that  would  alleviate  matters  for  her.  The  man 
was  utterly  selfish,  conscienceless,  ruthless,  any  of  half 
a  dozen  dreadful  things,  but  if  it  had  pleased  Lady 
Norah  to  explain  his  departure  by  accusing  him  of 
any  crime,  short  of  one  which  would  lead  to  his  arrest 
and  incarceration,  he  would  cheerfully  have  subscribed 
to  her  story,  and  indeed,  putting  aside  the  indisputable 
fact  that  he  was  deserting  his  wife  and  children,  it  is 
to  be  doubted  if  ever  before  a  man  ran  away  from 
home  in  such  a  perfectly  blameless  manner.  He  had 
no  longing  for  wild  living,  he  was  fastidious  to  an 
extraordinary  degree,  as  delicately  minded  in  some 
ways  as  a  woman,  and  Wein,  Weib  and  Gesang  pos- 
sessed for  him  no  charm  whatever,  as  the  story  of  the 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  31 

snake  charmer  must  prove.  He  didn't  even  care  for 
the  blameless  music  of  British  Sunday  afternoon  con- 
certs, whereas  the  wanton  fiddling  of  the  unlawful 
would  have  bored  him  to  tears.  He  did  not  look  on  him- 
self as  deserting  his  wife  and  his  children ;  had  he  done 
so  he  could  not  have  gone.  But  he  was  a  genial  crea- 
ture, his  honest  view  of  the  case  was  that  he  was  going 
away  from  a  place  that  he  did  not  like,  and  was  leaving 
a  good  woman  and  three  pleasant  babies  to  what  he 
seriously  expected  to  be  as  great  contentment  as  he 
knew  he  would  find  in  their  absence  from  him.  He 
provided  Lady  Norah  liberally  with  money,  he  kissed 
the  little  girls,  and  the  last  that  was  seen  of  him  from 
the  house  he  was  walking  down  the  driveway  with  a 
peculiar  air  of  youthful  blitheness. 

As  for  Lady  Norah,  she  was  not  "one  who  talked," 
as  the  old  nurse  said ;  her  life  went  on  much  as  usual. 
No  one  dared  ask  her  questions,  and  it  was  some  two 
or  three  years  before  even  the  old  Vicar  dared  to  in- 
quire when  Lambe  was  coming  home.  She  had  never 
particularly  liked  him,  and  never  having  realized  that 
she  did  not  understand  him,  had  always  silently  re- 
sented the  fact  that  he  did  not  understand  her.  She 
was  one  of  those  people  whose  own  smallest  actions 
are  to  themselves  of  the  utmost  importance.  Her 
changing  one  kind  of  tooth  paste  for  another  was 
considered  sufficiently  interesting  to  become  a  subject 
for  conversation,  and  what  she  had  said  to  nurse  and 
nurse  had  said  to  her  about  Sylvia's  flannels  or  the 
baby's  physic,  was  matter  for  discussion  throughout  a 
meal.  With  this,  a  thoroughly  good  woman,  very  con- 


32  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

scientious,  believing  herself  to  be  very  religious,  inas- 
much as  she  sincerely  bowed  down  in  her  heart  to  her 
monstrous  conception  of  a  God  with  no  sense  of  jus- 
tice and  no  sense  of  humor.  Why  she  was  so  con- 
vinced of  her  own  importance  in  the  universe,  why  she 
believed  so  thoroughly  in  her  own  wisdom,  why  she  so 
unaffectedly  expected  other  people  to  accept  her  com- 
monplace ideas  as  useful  and  even  brilliant,  I  don't 
know,  and  poor  Christopher  Lambe,  also  not  knowing, 
had  often  wondered.  He  was  too  polite  to  tell  even 
himself  that  she  bored  him,  but  if  analyzed  this  was 
the  chief  of  the  poor  woman's  crimes — so  he  whistled 
as  he  left  the  house. 

Three  years  passed  before  they  met  again. 


CHAPTER  V 

"T%     Jf^  dear  Norah,"  said  Christopher  Lambe 
%  / 1      gallantly,  coming  toward  her,  "you  are 

I    y  looking  splendidly !" 

She  was.  In  the  dingy  private  sitting 
room  of  Bagg's  Hotel,  in  Albemarle  Street,  the  tall, 
handsome  woman  in  her  well-fitting  gown  and  glossy 
brown  furs  was  almost  radiant.  She  was  not  yet 
thirty-four,  and  her  quiet  country  life  had  kept  her 
skin  and  eyes  young. 

"You,"  she  returned  truthfully,  "look  tired." 

"Sit  down,  my  dear.  Yes,  I  am — tired,  I  mean. 
How  are  the  little  girls?" 

His  tone  was  as  detached  as  it  would  have  been  had 
the  little  girls  in  question  been  merely  the  daughters 
of  some  newly  found  old  friend.  But  she  did  not  see 
this.  Quite  unsmiling  she  gave  him  the  news,  gave  it 
in  her  characteristic  way. 

"Very  well,  thanks.  Sylvia  is  lazy,  but  Susan  is 
very  clever.  She  is  going  to  be  brilliant,  I  think.  I 
have  had  great  trouble  with  her  teeth.  But  I  have 
had  her  under  an  American  dentist  and  he  has  nearly 
straightened  them.  A  very  ingenious  thing  made  of 
wire  that  he  tightens  gradually — painful,  but  excel- 
lent. Sylvia  is  doing  gymnastfcs,  she  is  too  fat." 

"Oh,  yes,  and  how  is  the  little  one?"    It  is  possible 
33 


84  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

that  he  could  not  for  the  moment  remember  the  child's 
name." 

"Daphne?  She  is  well,  too,  but  very  small.  Noth- 
ing seems  to  make  her  grow,"  drawing  her  tall  figure 
up  to  its  full  height  as  if  in  reproach  of  the  absent 
Daphne.  "I  can't  understand  why  she  doesn't  grow." 

A  gleam  of  amusement  crossed  Lambe's  pale  face. 

"7  never  did,  you  know — much,"  he  ventured  mildly, 
"She  may  take  after  me." 

Lady  Norah  looked  at  him  thoughtfully,  as  if  an 
entirely  new  possibility  were  presented  to  her  under- 
standing. 

"Yes,  she  may,  I  suppose.  But  she  doesn't  look  in 
the  least  like  you." 

Lambe  smiled.  "I  didn't  mean  to  suggest  anything 
improper,  my  dear.  After  all,  I  am  her  father,"  he 
added,  taking  up  the  poker  and  inspecting  it  before  he 
applied  it  to  the  sulky  fire,  "and  now  may  I  know  why 
you  sent  for  me?" 

"I  wished  to  see  you." 

"Yes.     But  why?" 

"They  all  say  I  ought  to — to  make  another  eff ort." 
Her  handsome  face  was  nearly  expressionless  as  he 
muttered  something  about  Mrs.  Dombey,  and  when  he 
was  again  silent  she  went  on,  "it  would  have  been 
nicer  if  you  had  come  to  Lambe  House.  I  am  sorry 
you  are  ill." 

"I  am  not  ill,  Norah ;  I  didn't  say  I  was.  I  said  I 
wasn't  able  to  come." 

"And  of  course  I  thought  that  meant — you  look 
quite  well — and  I  hardly  expected  to  find  you  up !" 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  85 

Then  he  laughed  aloud,  and  she  saw  how  many  more 
and  how  much  deeper  were  the  lines  in  his  face. 

"If  I  hadn't  been  'up,'  I  should  never  have  ventured 
to  ask  such  a  dragon  of  virtue  as  you  to  come  and 
see  me !  But  take  off  your  very  becoming  furs  and  I 
will  listen  like  a  good  boy." 

When  she  had  obeyed  and  sat  opposite  him  by  the 
fire,  he  went  on,  rubbing  his  hands  slowly. 

"Well?  Why  have  you  brought  me  from  Italy  to 
this  dreadful  town  at  this  dreadful  season  ?" 

"Christopher,  will  you  not  come  home?" 

She  looked  at  him  earnestly.  Plainly  she  was  do- 
ing her  duty,  but  he  was  surprised  to  see  in  her  face 
evidences  of  a  more  personal  feeling  as  well. 

"No,  Norah,"  he  answered  quietly,  with  a  pang  of 
pity. 

"Will  you  never  come  back?" 

"Not  to  stay." 

She  was  silent  and  he  added  hastily,  "How  is 
Thomas?" 

Thomas  was  his  valet  whom  he  had  left  behind,  but 
who  had  stayed  on  in  the  house. 

"Thomas  is  well,  I  believe.  He  would  like  me  to 
take  him  on  as  butler — Gregory  is  married — but  I 
can't  have  a  butler  named  Screach." 

"No,  I  suppose  not.    Besides  I  want  Thomas." 

"TFanJhim?  What  for?" 

"To  be  my  butler.  Why  can't  I  have  butlers  and 
things,  as  well  as  you?" 

He  laughed  at  his  little  joke,  but  she  did  not. 

"But  you  haven't  a  house." 


36  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Lambe  lit  a  cigarette. 

"Haven't  I?  Well,  no,  perhaps  I  haven't.  But  I 
have  a  villa  and  some  villas  rise  to  butlers." 

Lady  Norah  stared  at  him,  and  when  she  stared  her 
big  brown  eyes  looked  like  marbles. 

"Where  have  you  a  villa?" 

"Near  Sorrento.  Do  you  remember  young — dear 
me,  I've  forgotten  his  name — the  boy  who  brought 
home  the  little  girls  one  night  when  I  forgot  them  in 
a  boat?" 

"Yes,  young  Gunning." 

"Exactly,  Gunning.  Well  I  met  him  one  day  in 
Naples  about  a  year  ago.  I  was  on  my  way  back  from 
Morocco  and  was  in  a  restaurant.  He  was  there."  He 
paused  and  poked  the  fire.  His  thick  curly  hair  was 
thickly  streaked  with  gray,  she  saw,  as  he  bent  over 
the  faint  glow  he  had  succeeded  in  coaxing  from  the 
best  Wallsend,  and  his  hands,  though  very  thin,  were 
brown  as  well  as  freckled. 

"Go  on.  What  has  Mr.  Gunning  to  do  with  your 
villa?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon.  Nothing,  now.  Only,  I 
bought  the  villa  from  him,  that's  all." 

Lady  Norah  wasn't  particularly  interested,  but  she 
was  always  curious  in  a  well-bred  way. 

"How  did  he  come  to  have  an  Italian  villa  ?" 

His  mother  married  a  second  time  one  of  the  Bo- 
logna Acquadolces,  and  he  left  his  villa  to  her.  She 
got  sick  of  it  and  exchanged  it  with  the  boy  for  a 
house  he  had  in  London.  Then  he  sold  it  to  me." 

"Do  you  live  there?" 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  37 

"Yes.  I've  lived  there  for  about  six  months.  I 
thought  I'd  try  it  before  I  settled  down,  you  see." 

Lady  Norah  paused  for  several  minutes  before  she 
answered  him. 

"Christopher,  have  you  reflected  how — how  strange 
it  is  ?  Just  leaving  us  like  this,  I  mean." 

"Of  course  it  is  strange.  So  am  I  strange.  I — I 
hope  it  doesn't  bother  you,  Norah?"  he  added  anx- 
iously. 

"I  hate  questions  being  asked.  And  it  is  so  queer 
for  the  children.  They  wonder,  of  course." 

After  a  moment  he  looked  up  again.  "Why  don't 
you  tell  'em  I'm  dead?"  he  suggested  luminously. 

"Christopher!" 

"Well,  why  not  ?  Or  shut  up.  Lots  of  people  think 
I'm  mad." 

"Oh,  that,  yes,"  she  agreed  with  a  slight  tone  of 
contempt  in  her  voice. 

"Well !" 

"Christopher,  do  try  to  be  rational.  Realize  that  I 
am  not  asking  you  for  my  sake.  I  am  quite  happy, 
that  is,  happy  enough  and  every  one  knows  I  am  not 
to  blame.  But  the  children  are  growing  up.  I  sup- 
pose you  have  no  idea  how  old  they  are?" 

He  looked  confused  for  a  moment,  and  then 
laughed  cheerfully  at  himself. 

"Not  I !  Let  me  see,  the  biggest  one  must  be  ten,  I 
should  think?" 

Lady  Norah  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Sylvia  is  twelve,  and  little  Daphne  is  eight  and  has 
lost  her  front  teeth." 


38  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"Oh,  of  course,  if  she's  lost  her  front  teeth  I  ought 
to  go  back " 

She  frowned.  "Please  don't  interrupt  me.  When 
you  met  Mr.  Percival  in  Athens  eighteen  months  ago, 
you  told  him  you  went  away  because  you  were  tired  of 
seeing  corn  grow.  Now  that  alarmed  him.  It  really 
isn't  sane,  you  know." 

"  I  didn't  say  a  word  about  corn.  I  said  I  couldn't 
bear  the  sight  of  those  great  monstrous  things  like  de- 
capitated heads  that  they  pile  up  in  the  fields — mon- 
grel— what's  the  name  of  'em?  Mongrel-wrangles  or 
something.  And  I  couldn't,  I  loathed  them ;  and  po- 
tato fields,  I  loathe  them  now.  And  I  hate  rain  and 
fog — Oh,  my  God,  how  I  hate  fog !" 

He  spoke  with  a  vehemence  she  had  never  seen  in 
him,  but  she  persevered. 

"The  little  girls  need  you." 

"They  don't.  That's  the  beauty  of  me.  No  om- 
needs  me.  You  don't !" 

"But  they  do." 

"Well,  I'm  sorry.  They  can't  have  me.  They  can 
have — Oh,  yes,  I  haven't  told  you  that, — you  can 
have  money  if  you  like,  lots  of  it.  I  made  no  end  in 
copper  a  year  ago.  Come,  Norah,  let  me  write  you  a 
nice  fat  cheque." 

She  rose,  offended.  "I  did  not  come  here  for  money, 
Christopher.  You  are,  I  believe,  a  little  mad,  but  even 
you  ought  to  understand  that  you  have  no  right  to 
desert  us.  I  am  only  thirty-three,  besides." 

"You  mean ?" 

"I  mean  that  if  I  didn't  lead  the  life  of  a  hermit, 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  89 

people  would  talk,  and  that  I  can't  have  for  the  chil- 
dren's sake." 

"But  you  always  lived  the  life  of  a  hermit.  I  used 
to  drag  you  up  to  town  by  the  hair,  as  paleolithic  men 
used  to  drag  their  women  into  their  caves.  You  don't 
mean  to  say  you  are  longing  for  society?"  If  she 
had  suggested  a  longing  for  ballooning  he  could  not 
have  been  more  sincerely  amazed. 

She  put  on  her  furs  and  held  out  her  hand. 

"No,  but  in  those  days  the  children  were  very  little 
and  my  entire  duty  was  with  them.  Now  they  are 
older  and  I  should  like  occasionally  to  see  some  of  my 
old  friends." 

There  was  justice  in  her  plaint  and  he  knew  it. 

"Wait  a  minute,  Norah,"  he  said  slowly,  "let  me 
think." 

She  paused  while  he  thought.  The  hideous  room 
was  nearly  dark  but  for  the  firelight,  and  from  the 
wet  streets  came  the  sound  of  hurrying  carriages.  A 
boy  was  crying  the  evening  papers.  The  ornate  clock 
struck  six  and  a  coal  dropped  into  the  ashes.  Unim- 
aginative though  she  was,  these  details  remained  al- 
ways in  Norah  Lambe's  mind. 

At  length  he  spoke. 

"Look  here,"  he  said  with  the  pleased  air  of  one  to 
whom  an  enlightening  idea  has  just  come,  "Why  don't 
you  marry  again?" 

She  gasped  and  tried  to  speak,  but  he  went  on,  hold- 
ing up  one  hand  to  crave  her  attention. 

"No,  I  am  no  madder  than  usual,  and  I  have  not 
forgotten  that  you  have  already  one  husband  and  that 


40  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

I  am  he.  But  you  are  right  about  your  being  lonely 
and  young.  You  are  also  very  good-looking.  I  think 
my  idea  an  excellent  one.  You  can  divorce  me  any 
day — I'll  arrange  it.  I'll  knock  you  down  if  you  like, 
and  then — don't  you  see?" 

She  was  silent  for  some  seconds.  She  had  a  strange 
feeling  that  she  understood  him  better  in  that  extra- 
ordinary proposition  of  his  that  shocked  her  nearly 
out  of  her  wits,  than  she  ever  had  done  before.  Per- 
haps this  was  because  he  was  really  thinking  of  and 
for  her. 

"Thank  you,  Christopher,"  she  said  slowly.  "I 
don't  wish  for  a  divorce,  thank  you.  I  have  no  desire 
whatever  to  marry  again.  I  think  you  ought  to  try 
to  overcome  this  mad  notion  of  yours  for  staying  away 
from  us.  It  is  wrong  as  well  as  mad.  But  if  you 
won't — then  I  have  no  more  to  say.  Except  that, 
much  as  I  should  hate  to  leave  England,  I  would,  if 
you  wish  it,  come  to  Italy." 

Lambe's  eyes  betrayed  horror. 

"No,  no,  my  dear.  Thank  you  very  much;  it  is 
very  kind  of  you,  but  I  wouldn't  think  of  ac- 
cepting such  a  sacrifice,  in  fact  I  shouldn't  like  it 
at  all." 

"Very  well,  I  will  go  now.  Mr.  Percival  is  wait- 
ing for  me  downstairs.  We  are  going  back  by  the 
6.50." 

They  shook  hands,  and  he  opened  the  door. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said  vaguely.  "Thank  you  for  com- 
ing. Remember  me  to — I  mean  to  say,  give  my  love 
to  the  babies." 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  41 

As  she  went  out,  she  turned,  looking  a  little  like 
Mrs.  Siddons  in  her  majesty  of  demeanor. 

"Remember,  Christopher,  that  they  will  not  always 
be  babies." 

He  went  slowly  back  to  the  fire.  "No,  I  suppose 
they  won't,"  he  said  aloud,  "I  suppose  they  won't." 


CHAPTER  VI 

OF  course  Christopher  Lambe  had  not  been  al- 
lowed to  desert  his  wife  and  family  in 
peace,  as  he  himself  mentally  expressed  it. 
Unfortunately  for  him,  Lady  Norah  was 
one  of  many  brothers  and  sisters,  and  both  her  father 
and  mother  came  of  large  families.  So  that  during 
the  first  five  years  of  his  freedom,  Lambe  went  through 
several  interviews  with  outraged,  or  tearful  in-laws, 
and  heard  himself  called  nearly  every  abusive  name  in 
the  language.  The  worst  of  this  abuse  might  natur- 
ally have  come  from  his  brother-in-law,  the  Bishop, who 
had  the  Old  Testament  to  draw  on,  but  the  Honorable 
Thomas  Pember  was  a  genial  man,  and  thus  the  worst 
words  came  from  some  of  the  women ;  and  for  years 
Lambe  used  to  groan  at  the  recollection  of  these  in- 
terviews, which,  to  do  him  justice,  were,  all  but  two, 
absolutely  unavoidable  on  his  side. 

When  the  family  had  succeeded  in  prodding  its 
easy  going  chief  into  action,  Lambe  met  him  by  ap- 
pointment, feeling  in  his  queer  way  that  he  must  see 
Pemberley.  This  was  about  a  year  after  his  depar- 
ture from  Lambe  House,  and  the  two  men  met  in  what 
all  the  Pemberley  tribe  called  the  Town  House,  a 
dingy  hive-section  in  Grosvenor  Place.  It  was  August, 
and  very  warm,  and  the  drawing  rooms  were  shrouded 
with  holland. 

42 


Lord  Pemberley  was  smoking.  He  was  a  tall  thin 
man  with  very  little  hair  and  a  red  nose. 

"Well,  Kit,"  he  began  solemnly,  "what's  this  I 
hear?" 

Lambe,  who  had  just  come  home  from  somewhere 
far  away,  and  was  very  sunburnt,  laughed. 

"It's  probably  quite  time,  Otho,"  he  answered.  "I 
have  deserted  my  home  and  fireside,  I  have  disgraced 
the  name  of  Englishman." 

His  brother-in-law  eyed  him  curiously. 

"Where've  you  been?" 

Lambe  told  him. 

"With  a  woman?" 

"Good  Lord,  no !  And  I  don't  drink,  nor  gamble.  I 
am  a  remarkably  virtuous  man,  Otho.  I  don't  like 
home  life,  that's  all." 

"Humph!"  Lord  Pemberley's  wife,  who  had  pre- 
sented him  with  five  plain  women-children,  and  no  son, 
was  not  lovely  in  his  eyes. 

"You  see,"  went  on  Lambe,  smoking  comfortably, 
"I'm  not  quite  sane.  I  mean  to  say,  if  other  people 
are  sane,  then  I  must  be  a  little  mad.  I  have  nothing 
whatever,  as  I  need  hardly  tell  you,  against  Norah.  I 
appreciate  her.  She  is  good  and  not  at  all  bad-look- 
ing, and  people  like  her.  The  trouble  is  just  that  I 
don't;  like  her,  I  mean.  She  bores  me  to  death, 
Lambe  House  bores  me  to  death,  the  details  of  edu- 
cation bore  me.  So  do  governesses  and  progress  in 
lessons." 

"Bore  everybody,"  grunted  Pemberley,  "but  you 
have  to  put  up  with  'em." 


44  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"Oh!" 

"Well,  I  mean  to  say,  I  don't  like  hearing  about 
how  brave  or  how  cowardly  they  were  at  the  dentists, 
or  how  dull  about  the  Queens  of  England,  or  how 
they  say  their  prayers,  but — look  at  me !" 

Lambe  looked.  Then  he  said  with  an  extremely 
grave  face: 

"A  nice  example  you  are,  Otho." 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  mean,"  explained  the  little  man,  gazing  up  at 
him,  "that  when  Maud  began  boring  you,  you  took 
another  wife,  that's  all." 

Pemberley  gasped  and  behind  his  red  nose  (an  ef- 
fect of  defective  circulation,  not  drink)  his  face  paled 
unbecomingly. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"Well,  you  blessed  old  ostrich,  did  you  really  think 
no  one  knew?  We  all  know,  bless  you,  even  the 
Bishop.  And  as  for  me,  I  am  shocked  and  grieved. 
It's  insulting  to  Maud,  you  know.  I'm  not  insulting 
Norah." 

"Maud  doesn't  know,  if  you  mean — about — hem 
— ha — she  doesn't  know." 

"Oh,  doesn't  she?  You  go  home  and  ask  her  if  she 
doesn't.  My  dear  fellow,  people  always  know  things ; 
haven't  you  learned  that  yet?  Now  I  think  I'll  go.  I 
came  because  you  are  the  head  of  Norah's  family, 
but  you  really  mustn't  scold  me,  you  see." 

Pemberley  had  some  dignity  and  mustered  it 
now. 

"This  is  all  very  well,  Lambe,"  he  said,  "but  Norah 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  45 

is  my  sister,  and  you  are  hurting  her  and  I  have  a 
right  to  protest  against  it,  whatever  I  may  do  myself 
that  you  don't  like.  If  my  wife's  people  object  to  my 
actions,  they  haven't  said  so.  Now  will  you  behave 
like — like  a  gentleman  and  go  back  to  your  family? 
You  needn't  stay  at  Lambe  House  all  the  time,  you 
know.  There  is  no  reason  on  earth  why  you  shouldn't 
travel.  We  might  go  over  to  Paris  for  a  fortnight  at 
Christmas  time " 

Lambe  burst  out  laughing. 

"And  do  the  naughty  theaters  and  balls,  and  bring 
our  wives  a  Cartier  brooch  apiece?  No,  thanks.  My 
mind  cannot  grasp  the  turpitude  of  yours.  I  am  a 
good  man,  Otho,  and  you  are  a  thundering  old  scoun- 
drel. Good-bye." 

He  left  the  room  still  chuckling,  and  Lord  Pember- 
ley,  who  had  combined  this  interview  and  a  necessary 
visit  to  his  dentist,  followed  him,  after  a  short  interval, 
and  called  a  hansom.  Lambe  was  a  hopeless  fellow,  he 
reflected,  as  he  jerked  along  through  the  deserted 
streets.  And  as  to  there  being  no  woman  in  the  case, 
it  was  of  course  not  true.  And  thus  ended  the  inter- 
view with  the  Earl. 

The  Bishop  ran  him  to  earth  in  Munich,  late  in  the 
following  November. 

Lambe  was  standing  in  a  perfectly  dark  room  in 
the  museum,  looking  at  one  of  the  "Nativities,"  that 
set  far  back  behind  glass  in  a  niche  in  the  wall,  pre- 
sented a  most  perfect  picture  of  the  shepherds  watch- 
ing by  night. 

There  is  a  world  of  romance  and  beauty  in  the  very 


46  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

words,  "watching  by  night,"  and  the  genius  that  in- 
spired this  most  delectable  of  collections  has  sur- 
passed itself  in  this  scene. 

The  sky  is  a  velvety  dark  blue  pierced  with  stars 
that  are  made  of  real  light.  On  the  right,  on  the  hill- 
side, are  the  shepherds  among  the  drowsing  flock.  A 
palm  tree  droops  in  a  sharp  line  athwart  the  distant 
landscape  and  the  sky,  and  on  the  left,  in  a  cunningly 
contrived  ruin,  three  feet  high,  lie  the  mother  and 
child.  Their  minute  faces  are  really  beautiful.  They 
are  not  dolls,  they  are  tiny  statues  posed  by  a  great 
artist ;  and,  standing  quite  alone,  leaning  on  the  brass 
rail  before  the  glass,  Christopher  Lambe  forgot  that 
he  was  looking  at  a  work  of  art. 

The  humble  peasant  girl  with  her  'divine  child 
seemed  to  live  under  his  eyes,  which  grew  wet  before 
the  poignant  pathos  of  the  simple  scene.  And  above 
the  startled  watchers  by  night,  shone  the  great  Star 
from  which  a  shaft  of  light  swept  the  earth  and  a 
snow-white  angel  pointed  to  the  stable  whither  even 
then  the  Wise  Men  were  hurrying  with  gold,  frankin- 
cense and  myrrh.  It  was  utterly  quiet  in  the  little 
room  and  Lambe's  soft  hat  was  squasned  under  his 
arm,  for  he  was  in  a  sacred  place. 

Then  the  Bishop  touched  his  shoulder  and  he 
dropped  his  hat  and  started. 

"Good  gracious,  Tom,  you  here !" 

The  Bishop,  a  heavily  built  man  with  as  rosy  gills 
and  benign  eyes  as  a  bishop  should  have,  shook 
hands  with  him. 

"My  dear  Christopher,  I  am  glad  to  have  found 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  47 

you.  The  porter  at  your  hotel  luckily  remembered 
where  you  were  and  I  followed  you.'* 

"I  see." 

"You  look  well." 

"Quite,  thanks.  Yes,  I  am  blessed  with  excellent 
health." 

The  Bishop  was  young  for  one  of  his  ecclesiastical 
rank  and  assumed  a  breezy,  youthful  manner. 

"Now  then,  my  dear  fellow,  Pemberley  told  me  of 
his  interview  with  you.  I  quite  understand.  The  best 
fellow  in  the  world,  old  Otho,  but,  well,  he  hasn't  much 
sense  of  humor,  and  to  understand  you,  Kit,  a  man 
needs  a  great  deal  of  that  valuable  spice  of  life.  I 
have  told  them  from  the  first  that  they  went  at  you  in 
the  wrong  way.  'Leave  him  alone,'  I  said,  'and  he'll 
come  home.' ' 

"Like  Miss  Bo-peep's  lost  sheep?  Well,  Tom,  I 
might  as  well  tell  you  at  once " 

The  Bishop  took  his  arm. 

"It  won't  do,  Kit,  it  won't  do.  You  have  had  your 
holiday  (and  I  don't  mind  confessing  to  you  that  dear 
Norah  would  rather  bore  me  too,  if  she  was  my  wife), 
and  now  you  must  be  a  good  boy." 

Lambe  turned  away  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  the 
mother  and  child  in  the  stable. 

"Wait  a  minute,  Tom,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  want  to 
look  at  this  again.  It's  far  better  than  a  church." 

"Very  pretty,  I'm  sure.  Quite  charming  for  a  pup- 
pet-show," commended  his  Lordship  blandly. 

Lambe  turned,  frowning. 

"You  have  no  more  real  reverence  than — than  a 


48  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

codfish.  You  are  looking  at  the  Story  of  the  World, 
and  you  call  it  'very  pretty.'  Oh,  come  away." 

He  stalked  angrily  into  the  next  room,  and  without 
pausing  to  look  at  the  other  "pictures,"  led  the  way 
down  the  great  stairs.  Half-way  down  the  Bishop  re- 
covered himself. 

"I  know  you  don't  mean  to  be  rude,"  he  began, 
only  to  be  cut  short  again. 

"I  do.  I  mean  to  be  very  rude,  indeed.  My  life  is 
absolutely  a  harmless  one.  It  may  simplify  matters 
if  I  give  you  my  word  at  once  that  there  is  no  woman 
in  it — and  no  women.  That  I  don't  drink  petrol  in 
bed,  or  gamble  in  Chinese  Hells.  I  look  at  pictures 
and  see  plays ;  I  have  been  in  a  little  war  since  I  saw 
you  and  got  potted  in  my  leg.  That's  why  I  limp. 
And  I  have  lived  in  a  sailing  boat  for  months  at  a 
time.  And  I  have  fooled  about  with  the  people  who 
happened  to  interest  me  and  lain  on  my  back  and 
looked  at  the  sky  which  is  blue,  and — and  so  on,  and  so 
on,  and  so  on.  That's  all." 

The  big  prelate  looked  down  at  him. 

"I  see,"  he  said  slowly.  "I  don't  understand,  but  I 
believe  you,  Kit." 

"Thanks  for  believing  my  word  of  honor !" 

"Wait  a  minute.  I  do  believe  you,  and  I'll  do  my 
best  to  make  the  family " 

"Oh,  damn  the  family !  I  want  to  be  let  alone,  that's 
all.  I've  made  a  good  deal  of  money.  Copper.  And 
the  little  girls  shall  be  rich.  Norah  can  have  any 
amount  of  money.  But,  for  God's  sake,  don't  let  'em 
all  get  after  me.  I've  had  Sophy  Cresborough,  old 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  49 

Pelican,  and  Maria,  and  Corisande — God,  what  a 
tongue ! — and  Pemberley,  and  Jack,  and  Arthur,  and 
even  poor  old  Bill.  If  any  more  of  them  attack  me, 
I'll  lose  my  temper !" 

The  Bishop,  who  was  a  very  good  fellow,  laughed. 

"Poor  Kit !  Well,  I've  done  my  best.  I  can  do  no 
more.  I'll  not  bother  you  again.  Will  you  dine  with 
me  to-night?" 

Lambe  shook  his  head. 

"I'm  off  this  afternoon." 

"Whereto?" 

"I  don't  know  yet.  Away  from  this.  Good-bye, 
Tom." 

The  Bishop  held  out  his  hand,  which  was  large  and 
well-cushioned,  and  Lambe  shook  it  heartily. 

When  they  had  separated  at  the  door,  the  Bishop 
taking  a  droschke,  Lambe  starting  off  on  foot,  the 
carriage  came  to  a  sudden  standstill. 

"I  say,  Tom,  what's  your  hotel?" 

"The  Continental.    Why?" 

But  Lambe  went  his  way  without  answering. 

That  evening  the  Bishop  received  from  his  prodigal 
brother-in-law  a  cheque  for  two  thousand  pounds  and 
a  short  note: 

"DEAR  TOM: — This  comes  from  copper  mines  in 
America.  Use  it  for  poor  people  if  you  can — for 
the  kind  that  don't  get  taken  care  of  by  institutions. 

"Good  luck  to  you. 

"CHRISTOPHER  LAMBE." 


CHAPTER   VH 

ONE  morning  in  late  February,  nearly  five 
years  and  a  half  after  his  leaving  Lambe 
House,  Christopher  Lambe  was  sitting  in 
his  garden  by  the  sea  in  Italy. 

He  sat  in  a  long  pergola  covered  with  flowering 
roses  and  jessamine,  that  stretched  from  the  marble 
parapet  over  the  sea  straight  back  to  a  small  open 
place  in  which  most  musically  splashed  a  fountain. 

Before  the  little  man  sparkled  the  blue  bay,  to  his 
right  and  left  another  pergola  stretched,  covered,  this 
one,  with  a  very  delicate  fretwork  of  pale  green 
leaves,  and  in  the  little  open  space  where  his  long 
chair  stood  by  a  beautifully  carved  stone  table  he  was 
in  the  full  sun  of  nine  o'clock. 

He  was  reading  a  Neapolitan  newspaper,  and  on 
the  table  stood  his  breakfast :  coffee,  rolls,  eggs,  and 
grapes  like  great  globules  of  golden  honey. 

From  the  pergola  that  stretched  away  in  darkness 
behind  him  came  the  mellow  piping  of  a  prisoned 
blackbird.  The  knowledge  that  the  unseen  cage  was 
built  of  osier  and  was  of  a  large,  rustic  shape,  pleased 
Mr.  Lambe.  The  romance  of  beauty  in  even  humble 
things  had  in  the  last  years  grown  to  mean  much  to 
him. 

From  ft  low  ivy-covered  hood  of  gray  stone  at  his 
60 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  51 

feet  arose  a  third  sound,  a  gurgling,  soft  noise  rather 
like  a  deep-voiced  child's  chuckling  to  itself.  Lambe 
listened.  He  was  exquisitely  happy  at  that  moment 
and  the  gurgling  voice  mingled  with  the  singing  of 
the  blackbird  and  the  splashing  of  the  fountain 
gave  him  the  keenest  pleasure  compatible  with  utter 
rest. 

He  was  now  forty-one  and  looked  very  well.  His 
curly  gray  hair  was  a  trifle  longer  than  most  Eng- 
lishmen's, his  face  and  hands  were  burnt  by  many 
suns  to  a  warm  brown ;  surmounted  by  this  brown  hue, 
his  eyes  looked  the  color  of  blue  flame.  He  wore  gray 
flannels  and  a  silk  shirt  with  a  soft  collar,  and  his  nar- 
row feet  were  in  spotlessly  white,  rubber-soled  canvas 
shoes. 

He  was  eating  his  egg,  his  badly  printed  little  pa- 
per balanced  in  front  of  him  against  the  coffee  pot, 
when  a  footstep  caused  him  to  look  up.  From  the  in- 
visible house  on  his  left,  a  man  was  coming  toward 
him. 

"What  is  it,  Tommaso?" 

Thomas  Screach,  now  butler,  presented  to  his  mas- 
ter a  card  on  a  salver. 

"Mr.  Salvatore,  sir;  Vs  in  the  drawing  room." 

"Good.  Ask  him  to  come  out  here.  And  Thomas — 
if  Donna  Mabel  should  come,  ask  her  to  wait  in  the 
house — or  in  the  lower  garden,  will  you?" 

"Very  good,  sir." 

Thomas  went  his  way  and  a  few  minutes  later  Sig- 
nor  Salvptore  Santi,  of  Rome,  was  seated  near  Mr. 
Lambe  at  the  other  table. 


52  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"Well,  Salvatore,"  began  Mr.  Lambe  abruptly,  like 
an  excited  child,  "have  you  got  it?" 

"Si,  Signore!" 

Young  Santi,  a  really  rather  beautiful  youth  of 
the  smooth,  brown,  Roman  type,  bowed  his  head 
as  politely  as  the  exigencies  of  his  collar  would 
allow. 

"I  got  it  the  day  before  yesterday.  It  is  perfect, 
Signor  Lamm-a.  In  the  Poggio,  near  the  Diana,  it 
will  be  divine." 

"How  much  was  it?"  inquired  Lambe,  pouring  out 
more  coffee  from  a  beautiful  old  silver  pot. 

Young  Santi  named  a  sum  large  enough  to  startle 
the  ordinary  rich  man,  but  Lambe  nodded,  satisfied. 

"And  when  can  you  get  it  down  here?"  he  added. 
"By  Tuesday?" 

"Signore!     It  will  be  difficult.     Sara  difficile." 

But  Lambe  knew  that  "It  is  difficult,"  is  an  Italian 
euphemism  for  "impossible,"  and  dismissed  the  very 
possibility  of  impossibility  with  a  wave  of  his  hand 
and  a  quick  frown  that  the  young  antiquarian  knew. 
"Tuesday.  This  is  Thursday.  Lots  of  time,  Salvatore 
mio." 

He  spoke  very  correct,  idiomatic  Italian  with  a 
strong  touch  of  the  Sorrento  accent. 

"Now  let's  go  and  settle  on  the  exact  spot  for 
Tuesday." 

Together  they  passed  along  the  pergola  to  the  left, 
turned,  on  reaching  the  house,  sharply  to  the  left 
again,  and  walking  over  a  long  stretch  of  lawn  that 
was  the  envy  of  all  the  neighboring  villa  owners, 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  53 

opened  a  green  door  in  an  ancient  brick  wall  and 
found  themselves  in  the  orange  orchard. 

The  air  was  pungent  with  the  smell  of  oranges  in 
the  sun  and  apparently  the  orchard  had  no  end.  Away 
it  stretched  on  all  sides,  seemingly  a  boundless  forest 
of  beautiful  trees,  thickly  clustered  with  fruit  that 
glowed  like  lamps  among  the  splendid  glossy  leaves. 

The  two  men  walked  on  in  the  sun-flecked  shadows 
until  they  came  to  a  broad  avenue  on  either  side  of 
which  stood,  at  restful  intervals,  statues  or  amphorae 
— great  stone  or  marble  bowls  and  vases,  ancient  oil 
and  wine  receptacles,  as  beautiful  in  shape  as  though 
they  had  sprung  up  out  of  the  earth  like  the  trees 
themselves. 

"The  girl  with  the  dove  looks  very  well  from  here," 
mused  Lambe  happily.  "Just  look  at  her  chin !" 

Young  Santi  forgot  his  beautiful  patent  shoes  and 
his  genuine  London-made  gloves.  His  dark  eyes 
gleamed  as  he  gazed. 

"Beautiful  indeed,  sir.  And  I  am  convinced  we  had 
a  great  bargain  in  the  black-handled  vase.  My  father 
says  he  could  swear  it  is  not  later  than  400  A.  D.  An 
American  gentleman  is  trying  very  hard  to  get  one 
like  it,  but  Santi  e  Figli  do  not  manufacture  an- 
tiques," he  added  with  professional  pride. 

"Quite  so.  You  think  the  new  treasure  should  go 
opposite  the  Diana?  Better  than  at  the  crossways, 
eh?" 

The  young  man  reflected. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  declared  definitely  after  a  pause. 

"I  like  the  empty  space  at  the  crossways  opposite 


54  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

the  Pompeian  lady.  And  the  'new  treasure,'  as  you 
rightly  call  it,  will  go  beautifully  against  that  clump 
of  lemon  trees.  It  needs  a  background." 

They  walked  up  the  avenue  until  they  came  to 
where  it  was  bisected  by  another.  It  was  very  beauti- 
ful. The  place  was  so  vast,  the  foliage  so  abundant 
and  so  rich  in  quality  that  the  chaste  whiteness  and 
pale  brownness  of  the  beautiful  antiques  acquired  a 
new  value  by  their  surroundings.  There  was  no  ef- 
fect of  crowding,  of  arranging  for  show. 

Each  statue,  each  great  vase  could  be  seen  by  itself 
against  its  background  of  leaves,  and  if  Pan  himself 
had  come  peering  up  round  a  tree,  no  imaginative  per- 
son would  have  been  much  surprised. 

There  was  a  Pan,  a  grinning  brown  fellow  some 
two  thousand  years  old,  but  he  had  a  nook  all  to  him- 
self hidden  deep  among  creeper-hung  lemon  trees,  to 
whom  he  played  his  pipes  in  all  weathers  and  where,  it 
was  believed  by  the  peasants,  he  descended  from  his 
pedestal  to  dance  in  the  moonlight. 

Turning  to  the  left,  Lambe  led  the  way  to  the  place 
where  his  new  purchase  was  to  be  installed. 

It  would  be  hard  to  imagine  anything  more  beauti- 
ful than  the  Poggio  as  the  sun  filtered  down  through 
its  leaves,  each  one  of  which  shone  almost  like  a  tiny 
mirror.  To  the  left  now  came  a  row  of  lemon  trees 
with  great  pale  globes  of  fruit,  nearly  quite  ripe,  and 
beyond,  still  paler,  hung  clustered  grapefruit. 

"Strange  how  many  different  yellows  there  are  in 
oranges,"  Lambe  said  presently. 

The  young  Italian  nodded. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  55 

"Yes,  from  here,"  the  young  man  added,  throwing 
back  his  head,  and  half  closing  his  eyes,  "I  should 
say  I  can  see  at  least  twenty  different  shades." 

And  now  they  had  come  to  the  place.  On  their 
right  stood  the  Diana,  a  lovely,  lithe  lady,  strong 
legged  and  deep-chested,  with  a  bow  and  arrow  in  her 
hands  and  a  beautiful  uplifted  smile  on  her  marble 
face.  She  was  running,  and  the  wind  that  had  cooled 
Greece  over  two  thousand  years  ago  had  swept  her 
drapery  back  from  her  flying  limbs,  and  blown  out 
her  hair  as  she  ran.  It  was  a  very  beautiful  statue 
and  no  one  but  Christopher  Lambe  would  have  ex- 
posed it  to  even  the  benign  rains  and  winds  of  that 
favored  climate. 

Young  Santi  looked  at  her  adoringly. 

"And  you  still  don't  regret  putting  her  here  ?" 

Lambe  threw  out  his  hands  in  a  sudden  gesture. 

"My  dear  Salvatore,  imagine  her  shut  up  within 
four  walls.  It  would  be  as  bad  as  shutting  up  a  bird  in 
a  cage." 

"And  your  blackbird  in  the  pergola?" 

Lambe's  face  fell. 

"You  are  quite  right,  but  at  least  the  blackbird 
sings,  and  I  have  my  beautiful  concert  every  morning 
at  breakfast.  If  this  lady  were  caged,  she  would  not 
sing.  Upon  my  word,"  he  added,  looking  at  the  ex- 
quisite marble  creature  before  him,  "I  believe  her  hair 
and  her  draperies  would  droop  like  a  flag  in  a  calm, 
and  she  would  drop  her  bow  and  we  should  find  her  a 
miserable  heap  on  the  floor." 

Having  decided  on  the  exact  position  for  the  new 


56  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

purchase  after  stopping  to  examine  the  dif- 
ferent beautiful  bits  of  statuary,  most  of  which 
Santi's  father  had  been  instrumental  in  securing,  they 
made  their  way  back  to  their  house. 

At  the  far  end  of  the  garden,  on  the  side  of  the 
house  opposite  to  that  where  Lambe  had  breakfasted, 
the  sea  had  encroached  on  the  land  for  several  hun- 
dred yards,  cutting  for  itself  a  kind  of  small  bay. 
From  the  Poggio,  a  flight  of  stone  steps  led  to  what 
was  known  as  the  Cascade  Garden. 

The  two  men  went  down  these  steps  and  stood  for  a 
minute  leaning  over  the  wall  at  the  head  of  the  bay 
where  the  cascade  roared  down  the  rocks  that  were  the 
end  of  the  property  on  this  side.  Beyond  the  ravine 
through  which  the  water  poured  to  the  sea,  there  wa8 
a  small  sandy  beach  at  the  back  of  which,  close  to  the 
rocks,  stood  several  bathing  boxes  built  of  natural 
wood.  This  beach  was  reached  by  a  narrow  path  lead- 
ing to  the  edge  of  the  turbulent  water  at  the  foot  of 
the  cascade  and  this  by  a  single  spanned  bridge  that 
was  painted  bright  red  like  a  famous  one  in  Japan.  It 
was  a  lovely  spot,  unexpectedly  wild  and  dramatic, 
after  the  Greek  peace  and  serenity  of  the  Poggio. 

Turning  to  their  right  Lambe  and  Santi  continued 
their  way  seaward,  looking  affectionately  at  the  ex- 
quisite, broken  shafts  of  giallo  antico  that  bordered, 
on  their  right,  the  concrete  path  on  which  they  walked. 

"Honey  and  amber,"  commented  the  Italian.  "I 
think  on  the  whole  I  like  the  fluted  ones  best,  although 
the  grain  of  the  marble  shows  better  in  the  plain 
ones." 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  57 

'At  the  corner  where  they  turned  to  the  right  to  go 
toward  the  house,  their  way  led  through  a  small  steep 
tunnel  in  the  rock  which,  set  diagonally,  ended  about 
fifty  feet  from  the  cream-colored  wall  of  the  house  in 
a  small  garden  from  which  was  borne  to  them  as  they 
emerged,  out  of  breath,  an  almost  overpowering  smell 
of  heliotrope.  It  grew  in  the  garden  beds,  as  Lambe 
said,  "like  Christian  heliotrope;"  it  clambered  round 
the  archway  of  the  tunnel,  and  high  on  the  walls  of  the 
house  in  a  pagan  luxuriance,  and  in  the  silence,  broken 
only  by  the  voices  of  fishermen  and  children  on  the 
beach  far  below,  the  air  throbbed  with  the  booming  of 
bees. 

"Just  look  at  the  color  of  the  sea  above  the  purple !" 
exclaimed  Lambe  with  a  sigh  of  joy. 

Then  they  passed  along  the  little  terrace  in  front  of 
the  arcaded  lower  story  of  the  house,  and  by  a  steep 
flight  of  steps,  at  the  far  side  to  tKe  upper  garden, 
and  through  the  pergola,  back  to  the  breakfast 
place. 

"Now  then,  you  must  have  something  to  eat,  as  you 
really  must  catch  that  train  and  I  shall  expect  you  and 
'It*  here  on  Tuesday,  without  fail,"  said  Lambe. 

On  being  summoned  by  a  cunningly  hidden  electric 
bell,  Thomas  brought  food  and  wine.  The  young 
man,  after  a  hasty  meal,  took  respectful  farewell  of 
his  patron,  whom  he  heartily  liked  and  admired  and 
whom  he  as  heartily  believed  to  be  half  mad,  express- 
ing it  to  himself  by  the  phrase,  "There  is  no  Friday 
in  his  week,"  equivalent  to  the  English  one,  "A  screw 
loose." 


58  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

When  he  had  gone,  Lambe  heard  a  slight  cough 
and,  turning,  saw  Thomas. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,"  said  the  servant,  twisting  his 
mouth  in  a  way  that  meant,  Lambe  knew,  respectful 
sympathy,  "She  has  come." 

"Where  is  she?" 

"In  the  library,  sir." 


CHAPTER  VIII 

DONNA  MABEL  ACQUADOLCE  was  not 
in  the  library  when  Lambe  found  her.     She 
had  wandered  thence  through  a  gallery  out 
through  the  rock  down  to  a  little  cloistered 
grotto  almost  on  a  level  with  the  sea. 

In  the  days  when  the  villa  belonged  to  her  husband, 
this  grotto  had  been  a  favorite  spot  of  hers  and  she 
still  loved  it. 

When  Lambe  joined  her  she  was  sitting  on  the 
broad  ledge  that  would  have  been  the  window-sill  had 
the  arch  above  it  been  glazed,  and,  her  small  feet  in 
their  preposterous  red  shoes  wedged  tightly  against 
the  other  side  of  the  opening,  her  knees  in  the  air  (for 
the  arch,  one  of  them,  was  narrow),  she  was  listening 
to  the  gentle  splash  of  the  waves  in  the  piled  up  rocks 
twelve  feet  below  her. 

The  face  she  turned  to  Lambe  as  he  entered  the 
grotto  had  been  very  lovely  and  was  still  nearly  pretty 
in  the  shade  of  her  broad  flower-decked  hat.  Her  little 
nose  was  straight,  her  little  mouth  charmingly  shaped, 
her  blue  eyes,  though  faded,  alight  with  interest  in 
things,  and  very  bright.  Her  cheeks  were  very  rosy, 
but  it  was  the  rosiness  of  chemical  skill,  not  of  nature. 

"Good  morning,"  she  cried,  holding  out  her  left 
hand,  which  happened  to  be  nearer  to  him  than  her 
right,  "I  thought  you  were  dead,  or  something." 

59 


60  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"Sorry.  I  have  been  busy.  Did  Thomas  get  you 
your  rinf rescanti  ?" 

"Yes,  thanks.  I  had  foie  gras  sandwiches  and  a 
lemon  squash.  It  is  very  warm  to-day,  but  as  you 
know,  I  don't  mind  heat,  and  as  I  had  news  for  you,  I 
just  ran  over  early.  I  have  come  to  lunch,  if  you 
don't  mind." 

Lambe  bowed  courteously,  and  drawing  up  an  old 
cane  chair,  sat  down.  "What  is  the  news?" 

Donna  Mabel  felt  with  some  difficulty  in  her  pocket, 
which  she  had  to  drag  from  under  her.  Then  she 
looked  in  a  blue  silk  bag  which  hung  at  her  belt,  and  at 
last  found  a  letter.  "From  Hughie,"  she  said,  fum- 
bling for  her  lorgnon.  "He  has  been  to  Thingummy, 
and  seen  your  girls.  I  think  he's  in  love  with  one  of 
'em,  and  I  have  such  a  grand  plan !" 

Lambe  had,  so  to  speak,  acquired  this  lady  with  his 
villa. 

Donna  Mabel,  having  exchanged  it  for  her  son's 
house  in  town,  listened  delightedly  to  the  negotiations 
for  the  sale  between  her  son  and  the  strange  little 
gentleman  at  the  hotel  Aurora,  and  then  the  moment 
the  sale  was  concluded  and  Villa  Acquadolce  was 
Christopher  Lambe's,  she  wanted  it  back.  It  was  Tier 
house,  she  said,  and  so  how  could  it  be  Lambe's  ?  As  if 
conjured  away  by  the  wave  of  a  wand,  her  longing 
for  London  ceased.  London  was  dark  and  smoky,  and 
its  inhabitants  lived  on  raw  mutton  and  boiled  pota- 
toes, and  her  dear  Livio  would  hate  her  to  go  to  such 
a  dreadful  place. 

The  accuracy  with  which,  since  his  death,  she  had 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  61 

read  Livio  Acquadolce's  mind  is  perhaps  not  excep- 
tional among  widows,  but  it  made  life  very  trying  to 
Hugh  Gunning,  who  was  the  best  of  sons  and  who  hon- 
estly believed  his  chief  duty  in  life  to  be  the  pleasing 
of  his  poor  little  mother. 

At  first  he  reminded  her  of  her  former  convictions 
that  the  defunct  Livio  would  have  wished  her  to  spend 
the  remainder  of  her  days  "among  her  own  people,  in 
the  country  she  had  deserted  through  her  love  for 
him."  But  reminding  people  of  their  opinions  of  yes- 
terday or  yestermonth  is  a  thankless  and  a  futile  task, 
as  this  young  Gunning  speedily  learned. 

"I  said  that  before  the  sale?  Well,  I  was  wrong, 
very  wrong,"  she  declared,  unashamed  of  her  change 
of  front.  "He  brought  me  here  as  a  bride,  and  we 
were  happy  here,  and  you  would  have  been  born  here 
if  we  hadn't  stayed  a  little  too  long  at  Aix.  Go  away, 
Ugolino,  you  mean  well,  I  know,  but  you  were  only 
two  when  your  darling  father  died,  and  it  stands 
to  reason  that  I  know  more  about  what  he  would 
like  than  you  do.  Of  course  he'd  want  me  to  stay 
here." 

She  was  gifted,  the  little  bright-eyed  woman,  with 
the  facile  tear,  and  poor  Hughie  felt  himself  a  mon- 
ster when  she  dabbed  at  her  eyes  with  her  handker- 
chief. 

"But  you  see,  mother  dear,  you  can't  stay  here," 
he  explained  with  the  greatest  patience,  over  and  over 
again. 

"If  that  man  is  such  a  brute  as  to  hold  you  to  your 
bargain — and  he  is  much  older  than  you ! — then  I 


62  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

can  at  least  live  on  in  the  neighborhood.  I  suppose  he 
can't  have  me  expulsed  from  the  village !" 

For  a  long  time  Donna  Mabel  had  peresisted  in  re- 
garding the  new  owner  of  Villa  Acquadolce  as  a 
usurper  of  her  rights,  and  she  used  to  cross  her  fingers 
over  her  thumbs,  extending  the  first  and  the  little 
fingers  when  she  met  him. 

This  seems  to  the  uninitiated  a  harmless  enough 
form  of  revenge,  but  those  who  know  Italy  will  un- 
derstand its  menace  to  Lambe.  He  himself,  delighted 
with  his  new  property,  knew  nothing  of  it  until  poor 
Hughie  told  him. 

"I  think  you  ought  to  know,  sir,"  the  young  man 
said  miserably.  "I — I  have  tried,  but  I  can't  stop 
her." 

"Oh,  well,  let  her  cross  her  fingers  and  her  toes 
too,  if  she  can.  It  can't  hurt  me,"  returned  Lambe, 
good-naturedly. 

"It  can  ruin  you,  sir,"  the  young  man  declared. 

"Nonsense !" 

"But  it  will.  Not  one  of  the  tradespeople  will  sup- 
ply you,  not  one  of  the  workmen  will  come  near  the 
house,  once  it  gets  round.  There's  not  a  bit  of  use 
laughing  at  the  Evil  Eye.  The  fact  that  the  people 
all  believe  in  it  makes  it  a  fact  itself.  I — I  really 
don't  know  what  to  do." 

Lambe,  who  was  eating  oranges  as  they  walked  in 
the  Poggio,  while  they  talked,  wiped  his  silver  clasped 
knife  on  the  grass  and  put  it  into  his  pocket. 

"Well,  what  are  we  to  do?"  he  asked. 

Then  they  conferred  seriously. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  63 

The  result  of  their  council  was  that  Lambe  called 
on  Donna  Mabel,  and  invited  her  and  her  son  to  come 
to  stop  with  him  at  the  villa  until  she  should  have 
found  a  suitable  house  for  herself  in  the  neighborhood. 

"I  am  delighted  to  learn  from  your  son,"  he  added 
genially,  "that  you  are  going  to  become  my  perma- 
nent neighbor." 

"Yes.  I  feel  that  my  dear  husband  would  not  like 
me  to  leave  the  place  where  we  were  so  happy." 

"I  see.  Now  when  will  you  come?  The  workmen 
will  be  out  in  a  fortnight,  suppose  you  come  then? 
And  perhaps  you  will  give  me  the  benefit  of  your 
taste  in  my  Kttle  arrangements  ?" 

Donna  Mabel  assented  gladly.  She  was  one  of 
those  women  who  never  refuse  an  invitation  of  any 
kind.  Lambe  established  her  and  Hughie  in  the  wing 
in  which  they  had  lived  previous  to  his  coming  and 
they  stayed  for  four  months. 

Hughie  Gunning  came  into  a  good  deal  of  money 
when  he  was  twenty-five,  but  at  that  time  he  wa* 
twenty-three. 

The  visit  to  the  villa  quite  put  an  end  to  the  crossing 
of  Donna  Mabel's  fingers,  but  alas !  for  Lambe,  it 
confirmed  her  in  her  idea  that  Villa  Acquadolce  still, 
ethically,  belonged  to  her.  She  greatly  enjoyed  ad- 
vising Lambe  about  the  alterations  he  found  neces- 
sary to  be  made  in  the  house,  but  after  some  six  weeks 
she  discovered  that  her  advice  had  never  once  been 
taken  and  there  was  a  storm.  Lambe,  with  his  hands 
in  his  trousers  pockets,  listened  quietly.  He  had  now 
been  long  enough  in  Italy  to  learn  to  appreciate 


64  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

the  reasonableness  of  young  Gunning's  alarm  about 
the  Evil  Eye.  He  knew  that  he  could  not  afford  to 
acquire  such  a  reputation  and  willingly  paid  the  price 
necessary  for  avoiding  it,  but  he  could  not  allow 
Donna  Mabel  Acquadolce  or  anybody  else  to  dictate  to 
him  about  what  should  be  the  arrangements  and  de- 
tails of  the  house  in  which  he  intended  to  spend  the 
rest  of  his  life. 

"Ah,  yes,  I  see,"  he  said;  "you  object  to  the  verdi 
antico  pillars  in  the  big  drawing  room?  That  is  be- 
cause you  know  nothing  of  building.  You  see,  I  have 
pulled  down  the  wall  between  that  room  and  what 
used  to  be  the  little  red  boudoir,  which  makes  the  ceil- 
ing too  long  for  safety;  without  those  pillars,  the 
whole  ceiling  might  fall  down  on  our  heads  some  day 
after  dinner.  How  would  you  like  that?" 

"I  don't,"  declared  Donna  Mabel,  "approve  at  all 
of  the  wall  being  torn  down  and " 

He  interrupted  her,  his  blue  eyes  fixed  on  her,  his 
small  face  suddenly  rigid. 

"Whose  wall  is  it?"  he  said. 

"Of  course  if  you're  going  to  be  rude " 

Then  Lambe  took  her  hand. 

"Dear  Donna  Mabel,  you  know  I  am  not  rude,  you 
know  how  great  is  my  regard  for  you,  but  after  all  it 
is  I  who  am  going  to  live  in  the  house,  so  why  grudge 
me  my  green  pillars?  I  quite  acknowledge  the  suc- 
cess of  the  crimson  brocade  that  you  chose  in  the 
library  as  well  as  the  decoration  of  the  west  wing,  but 
in  this  I  fear  I  cannot  take  your  advice." 

Now  Donna  Mabel  knew  as  well  as  he  did  that  she 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  65 

had  suggested  neither  the  crimson  brocade  nor  the 
decorations  in  the  west  wing,  but  supposing  he  had 
forgotten  and  believed  both  these  successes  due  to  her, 
it  followed,  as  day  follows  night,  that  he  must  admire 
her  taste.  So  why  remind  him  that  she  had  suggested 
things  quite  different? 

A  month  later  she  was  clamoring  for  applause 
about  the  beauty  of  the  pillars  in  the  drawing  room, 
due  to  her  inspiration,  and  Lambe  congratulated  her 
bravely. 

Something  of  Italian  subtlety  had  come  to  the  little 
man  since  he  had  lived  in  that  delightful  country.  He 
had  been  bored  by  the  lady  with  the  chemical  com- 
plexion in  a  way  that  put  his  former  boredness  to 
shame,  but  he  rather  enjoyed  baffling  her,  and  after 
all  in  some  small  matters  she  was  useful  to  him,  for 
while  he  developed  a  very  decent  artistic  sense,  he  re- 
mained to  the  end  of  his  days  rfdiculously  ignorant  of 
the  minor  details  of  housekeeping.  Donna  Mabel  did 
very  well  in  the  matter  of  drapery  and  bed  linen,  and 
it  was  she  who  discovered  that  the  first  cook  he  en- 
gaged was  supplying,  by  means  of  a  basket,  a  rope 
and  a  boat  at  the  foot  of  the  cliff,  his  entire  family, 
numbering  eight  souls  or  rather  eight  stomachs,  not 
only  with  the  necessities  but  with  the  luxuries  of  life. 

At  the  end  of  the  fourth  month  after  her  arrival 
the  villa  was  in  perfect  order  and  in  the  hands  of  com- 
petent honest  servants.  Then  Donna  Mabel  departed 
to  a  small  house  about  two  miles  inland  and  peace  de- 
scended on  Christopher  Lambe. 

Lambe  had  chosen  the  house  for  Donna  Mabel ;  the 


66  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

road  to  it  was  rough  and  very  steep,  but  the  house 
itself,  formerly  inhabited  by  a  German  painter,  was 
large  and  comfortable,  suspiciously  large  and  com- 
fortable for  the  money  she  had  paid  for  it.  As  a 
matter  of  fact  Lambe  had  had  secret  dealings  with  the 
late  owner  and  when  Donna  Mabel's  purchase  was 
complete,  he  found  himself  some  few  hundred  pounds 
out  of  pocket,  which  was  compensated  for  by  the  feel- 
ing that  he  was  henceforth  safe  from  more  than  semi- 
occasional  visits  from  his  late  guest.  This  sweet  hope 
proved  a  fallacy,  for  Donna  Mabel,  enchanted  with 
what  she  believed  to  be  the  cheapness  of  her  bargain, 
at  once  found  that  she  could  afford  a  pony  cart  in 
which  she  made  almost  daily  visits  to  the  villa.  She 
was  not  exactly  a  fool,  nor  was  Lambe  one  of  those 
who  suffer  fools  gladly,  but  he  had  no  alternative  but 
to  receive  her  with  apparent  pleasure,  and  she  was 
perfectly  satisfied  with  the  welcome  he  always 
gave  her.  She  was  the  fly  in  his  ointment,  she  was  the 
cloud  on  his  horizon ;  she  was  the  one  flaw  in  his  other- 
wise perfectly  happy  life,  but  having  made  up  his 
mind  that  he  could  not  afford  to  make  an  enemy  of 
her,  he  accepted  her  like  a  wise  man,  as  he  accepted 
occasional  rainy  days  without  murmuring,  even  to 
himself. 


CHAPTER  IX 

DEAREST  Mother,"  Hughie  Gunning's 
letter  began.  "Thanks  for  yours.  What 
is  it  you  want  me  to  get  you?  I  cannot 
read  the  word  at  all  and  to  whom  am  I 
to  send  the  Kipling  book? 

"I  went  to  see  Aunt  Lilias  on  Saturday,  as  you 
asked  me.  Her  new  husband  must  be  at  least  twenty 
years  younger  than  she  and  looks  an  awful  bounder. 
She  seems  pleased  with  him.  She  sent  you  her  love. 

"I  think  there's  no  other  news,  except  that  Major 
Luscombe  is  dead ;  he  dropped  in  a  fit  at  his  club. 

"I  am  very  well,  and  have  been  down  stopping  with 
the  Grahams  at  Brighton.  Nice  cheery  people  they  all 
are.  On  Sunday  I  went  over  in  Bill's  motor  to  see 
the  Lambes. 

"Sylvia  is  a  wonder.  She  is  very  tall,  and  has  sim- 
ply the  most  beautiful  face  I  have  ever  seen,  even  in 
pictures." 

At  this  point  Donna  Mabel  stopped,  and  looked  up 
at  Lambe  in  the  midst  of  a  smile. 

"How  old  is  she  ?"  she  said. 

Lambe,  who  through  a  long  course  of  coping  with 
the  little  lady's  obstinate  omniscience,  had  grown  to  re- 
gard himself,  in  juxtaposition  to  her,  as  a  rather 
determined  wise  man,  greatly  disliked  exposing  to  her 

67 


68  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

his  own  weak  points.  He  had  no  idea  how  old  his  eld- 
est daughter  was ;  he  could  not  have  told,  if  his  life 
depended  on  it,  how  long  he  had  been  away  from 
Lambe  House,  so  he  had  no  means  of  calculating. 

"Oh,  she's  getting  to  be  a  big  girl  now,"  he  said, 
with  a  solemn  wag  of  his  head.  "She'll  be  very  tall 
now,  as  he  said.  Her  mother's  people  are  all  big.  I 
have  often  wondered  how  Norah  ever  made  up  her 
mind  to  marry  a  shrimp  like  me.  Oh,  go  on,  go  on," 
he  added  briskly,  "it  is  a  very  interesting  letter." 

Donna  Mabel  continued. 

"The  second  girl,  Susan,  would  be  a  beauty  any- 
where else  and  has  a  most  lovely  voice.  They  are 
awfully  jolly  kids,  we  have  great  fun  together.  I 
have  asked  Lady  Norah  to  give  me  their  photographs. 

"The  littlest  one,  Daffy,  is  very  plain  and  small, 
almost  a  dwarf,  I  should  think.  I  was  talking  to 
Sylvia  and  Susan  about  Italy,  when  suddenly  this  lit- 
tle thing  came  up  to  me  and  asked  me  in  a  deep  hoarse 
voice,  'Do  you  know  where  my  father  is?'  Poor  little 
mite !  I  told  her  about  the  villa  and  she  told  me  to  tell 
him,  when  I  see  him,  that  she  wants  to  come  where  he 
is.  It  was  rather  pathetic. 

"The  people  hereabouts  take  Lambe's  desertion  in 
very  bad  part.  Lady  Norah  seems  extremely  nice, 
though  rather  dull,  and  is  bringing  the  girls  up  beauti- 
fully. The  two  elder  ones  are  the  picture  of  health, 
but  the  mother  told  me  that  the  little  one  is  disposed 
to  have  asthma  and  the  doctor  has  said  that  she  ought 
to  go  to  to  a  warm  climate.  She  was  to  have  gone 
abroad  with  Lady  Corisande  Peplow,  but  Peplow  has 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  69 

been  sent  to  Petersburg  on  some  mission.    I  believe  he 
is  to  have  a  peerage. 

"I  shall  be  with  you  at  the  end  of  the  month 
and  very  glad  I  shall  be  able  to  get  back  to  the  dear 
place. 

"Remember  me  to  Mr.  Lambe,  and  give  my  love  to 
Giannina. 

"And,  I  am,  dearest  mother, 

"Always,  your  most  affectionate  son, 

"HUGHIE." 

"There!"  exclaimed  Donna  Mabel  triumphantly, 
"do  you  see?  It  will  be  perfectly  delightful.  He  is 
in  love  with  her  already  and  you  like  him,  and  you  and 
I  are  great  friends  and  he  can  buy  Molinari's  place 
and  you  can  buy  the  olive  grove  between,  and  all  you 
will  have  to  do  will  be  to  build  a  bridge  over  the  ravine 
and  there  you  are !" 

"Who's  in  love,  and  why  should  I  buy  Molinari's 
place?" 

Donna  Mabel  struck  at  him  playfully  with  the  let- 
ter, with  a  Victorian  kittenishness,  quite  out  of  date  in 
these  days  of  fine,  manly  women. 

"Don't  be  silly;  I  mean  Hughie,  of  course.  It  is 
quite  easy  to  see  that  the  boy  is  head  over  ears  in  love 
already  and " 

"But  with  whom?  With  my  wife,  or  my  daughter? 
And  with  which  one  of  my  daughters,  if  you  mean 
that?  I  have  three." 

"With  Sylvia,  of  course.  The  thing  to  do  is  to 
get  her  over  here  at  once,  then  they  will  be  thrown 


70  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

together,  and  before  she  has  so  much  as  seen  any  other 
young  man  we  can  have  them  safely  married." 

Lambe  stared  at  her. 

"But  she's  only  a  baby !  She  cannot  be  more  than — 
let  me  see.  Oh,  well,  I  don't  know  how  old  she  is,  I 
should  think  not  more  than  ten." 

Donna  Mabel  made  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"Nonsense !  You  have  been  away  five  years  and  a 
half;  she  must  have  been  seven  or  eight  then,  if  not 
more.  You  told  me  that  the  littlest  one  was  having 
piano  lessons,  so  she  must  have  been  four  or  five.  And 
then  there's  Susan." 

"Oh,  yes,  there's  Susan,"  admitted  Lambe  guiltily. 

"Well  then,  don't  you  see,  this  eldest  one  must  be 
about  fourteen.  Livio's  sisters  both  married  before 
they  were  seventeen.  Suppose  you  send  a  telegram 
and  get  them  over  at  once.  It  would  be  very  good  for 
the  asthma." 

But  Lambe  did  not  want  his  daughters. 

"It's  the  littlest  one  who  has  the  asthma,"  he  said, 
"and  one  of  my  sisters-in-law  will  take  her  somewhere. 
No,  no,  I  won't  have  them  here.  Did  I  tell  you,"  he 
said  suddenly,  "that  the  Kirklands  are  coming  to 
lunch?" 

Donna  Mabel  jumped  down  from  her  perch,  stuff- 
ing the  letter  into  her  bag. 

"Dio  santissimo!  No,  you  didn't.  I'm  off.  I  am 
sorry  to  seem  rude,  but  you  know  I  cannot  stand  those 
people.  I  don't  see  why  you  ask  them  here." 

"Like  'em,"  said  Lambe  shortly.  "So  you  won't 
stay?" 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  71 

"No,  thanks." 

He  accompanied  her  politely  through  the  winding 
gallery  to  the  library  and  across  the  hall  to  the  front 
door. 

"Thomas,  Donna  Mabel  would  like  her  pony  car- 
riage." 

"Very  good,  sir." 

A  moment  later  as  he  returned  from  giving  the  or- 
der, Thomas  approached  his  master. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  shall  you  be  in  to  lunch?" 

Lambe  regarded  him  absently. 

"Yes,  but  I  shan't  want  any  proper  lunch.  You 
may  bring  me  some  fruit  in  the  Cascade  Garden." 

Donna  Mabel  whirled  round  on  her  high  heels  and 
fixed  him  with  a  reproachful  eye. 

"How  like  you  to  forget  all  about  the  Kirklands ! 
That  greedy  old  woman  would  have  been  pleased  to 
find  a  lunch  of  fruit  and  nothing  else." 

"Bless  me !"  ej  aculated  Lambe.    "I  am  an  idiot." 

The  pony  carriage  arriving  at  that  moment  caused 
a  welcome  diversion  and  the  little  lady  drove  away, 
promising,  in  comforting  tones,  to  come  back  the  next 
day. 

Lambe  turned  back  out  of  the  sun  into  the  cool, 
square  hall.  Thomas  stood  respectfully  looking  at 
him. 

"Fruit  in  the  pergola,  sir.    Any  wine,  sir?" 

"Yes,"  said  Lambe,  "  And,  Thomas,  I  think  in  case 
anybody  comes  to-morrow,  you  had  better  say  I  have 
gone  to  Naples  for  the  day.  I  am  very  tired, 
Thomas,"  he  said  plaintively. 


72  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Thomas  Screach  nodded. 

"Very  good,  sir." 

A  model  servant,  this  middle-aged  man,  with  the  ab- 
normally long  upper  lip,  and  he  was  Christopher 
Lambe's  only  confidant.  Long  before  Lambe  left 
Lambe  House,  the  good  Screach  had  fully  understood 
the  silent  misery  of  his  master.  No  one  knew  better 
than  Thomas  the  direful  effect  of  Lady  Norah  on  her 
husband.  No  one  realized  better  than  Thomas 
how  the  details  of  "bringing  up"  bored  Lambe, 
how  he  hated  the  cold,  and  the  wet,  how  he 
loathed  going  to  church  on  Sunday  morning,  how 
the  solemn  dinner  parties  at  his  own  or  neighbor's 
houses  depressed  the  poor  little  man,  how  the 
very  word  "nurse"  exasperated  him — in  a  word, 
how  thoroughly  out  of  place  Christopher  Lambe 
was  in  that  state  of  life  to  which  it  had  pleased  God 
to  call  him. 

Yet  these  things  had  never  been  verbally  touched 
upon  by  either  of  the  two  men  to  the  other.  What 
Thomas  Screach  knew,  he  knew  by  intuition  and  ob- 
servation, and  there  was  within  him  a  delicate  soul 
that  forbade  his  ever  making  a  mistake  by  expressing, 
however  subtly,  his  knowledge.  But  Lambe  knew  he 
knew,  and  loved  him  for  his  silence. 

Screach,  for  his  part,  had  never  disliked  Lady 
Norah,  whom  he  regarded  rightly  as  a  "real  lady," 
though  dull.  Donna  Mabel  he  could  not  abide,  and 
his  faithful  heart  had  for  some  time  been  haunted  by 
the  fear  that  Lambe  might  marry  the  former  owner  of 
his  present  home.  There  was  always  Lady  Norah  in 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  73 

the  background,  but  to  Screach  it  seemed  that  if 
Donna  Mabel  wished  to  marry  Lambe  she  would  some- 
how or  other  manage  to  do  so.  Of  late,  however,  this 
fear  had,  owing  to  unmistakable  signs  on  Lambe's 
part  of  something  nearly  approaching  dislike  of  the 
little  lady,  subsided,  and  the  man's  anxiety  had 
changed  into  a  malicious  delight  in  helping  his  mas- 
ter's rigidly  unexpressed  wish  to  avoid  his  pertinacious 
friend  as  much  as  possible. 

So  Lambe  went  back  to  his  unfinished  newspaper  to 
await  the  coming  of  the  post,  and  Thomas  looked  for- 
ward with  grim  pleasure  to  the  next  day,  when  his 
should  be  the  task  of  denying  his  master  to  Donna 
Mabel. 

After  a  happy,  idle  day  Lambe  dined  alone  in  his 
big  dining  room  and  then  went  for  a  smoke  in  the 
Pompeian  garden  beyond  his  breakfast  place.  Here 
in  niches  in  the  ancient  wall  lived  mutilated  stone 
ladies,  each  of  whom  had  her  name  and  history.  At 
their  feet  was  a  flower  bed  now  full  of  violets,  and 
opposite  to  them,  across  a  narrow  gravel  path,  was  a 
square  tank  full  of  water,  on  which  floated  rosy  water 
lilies,  now  asleep.  Nightingales  sang  in  the  cypress 
thicket  between  the  tank  and  the  sea,  and  on  the 
cement  path  that  was  the  end  of  the  property  that  side 
and  looked  over  the  ravine,  the  bridge  of  which  Donna 
Mabel  had  that  morning  suggested,  Lambe  walked  up 
and  down  smoking. 

Suddenly  he  was  aware  of  some  one  coming  toward 
him  in  the  shadow  of  the  cypresses,  a  tall,  broad 
figure,  vaguely  familiar,  vaguely  unwelcome. 


74  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"Hallo,  Kit,  arc  you  there?"  cried  a  round,  warm 
voice. 

"My  God,  yes,  I'm  here,  what  is  it?" 

"It  is  me,  Kit,"  returned  the  Bishop,  emerging  into 
the  moonlight.  "Don't  be  alarmed.  Norah  has  broken 
her  leg  and  cannot  be  moved  for  weeks,  and  none  of 
the  rest  of  the  family  seem  to  be  able  to  get  away, 
so  7  have  brought  Daphne." 

"Daphne!"  repeated  Lambe  stupidly,  beginning  to 
shake  hands  with  his  self-invited  guest. 

"Yes.  I  suppose  you  remember  that  you  have  a 
daughter  named  Daphne?  Well,  she's  seedy  and  the 
doctors  have  ordered  her  out  of  England;  she  must 
have  a  warm  climate  and  that  sort  of  thing.  She's  in 
the  house  now." 

But  even  as  he  spoke  there  came  the  sound  of  a 
splash  and  a  little  cry — Daffy  had  walked  into  the 
little  pond.  Christopher  Lambe  fished  his  last  born  out 
of  the  dark  water  and  carried  her  back  to  the  house. 
It  was,  he  felt,  the  beginning  of  the  end. 


CHAPTER  X 

THUS  came  Daffy  to  Italy.  The  journey  was 
hurried,  and  she  being  ill  the  most  she  re- 
membered of  it  was  the  smell  of  the  fur  coat 
in  which  her  uncle,  the  Bishop,  had  kept  her 
wrapped.  Hurried  meals  at  buffets  she  recalled  and 
once  in  the  middle  of  the  night  when,  owing  to  a  flood, 
they  had  to  change  trains,  she  had  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life  tasted  the  subtle  joys  of  cafe  au  lait.  The 
milk  had  boiled  for  hours  and  was  full  of  shreds  of 
cream  and  on  its  surface  floated  millions  of  little 
globules  of  grease.  The  coffee  was  most  likely  chiefly 
composed  of  chicory,  but  to  Daphne  it  was  nectar. 

"Don't  you  like  it,  Uncle  Tom?"  she  asked  the 
stately  gentleman  who  was  personally  conducting  her 
to  that  most  romantic,  fabulous  person,  her  father,  as 
he  set  down  his  cup  with  a  little  grunt  and  a  grimace. 

The  Bishop  waved  his  hand  benevolently. 

"Drink  it,  my  dear,  it  will  do  you  good." 

In  the  train  into  which  they  changed  they  were 
unable  to  be  alone  in  their  compartment.  A  lovely 
lady,  wrapped  in  furs,  sat  in  the  corner  opposite  to 
the  Bishop  and  occasionally  smiled  at  the  enraptured 
Daffy,  who,  far  too  shy  to  smile  back,  buried  her  face 
in  the  collar  of  Uncle  Tom's  coat,  her  big  eyes  staring 
out  over  it  like  those  of  some  small  furry  animal.  The 

75 


76  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

lady  was  dressed  in  dark  green  and  her  furs  were  like 
Daffy's  mother's,  only  browner  and  shinier  and  much 
more  abundant.  She  had  a  gold  bag,  on  the  edge  of 
which  sparkled  little  red  and  white  stones  that  Daffy 
knew  were  rubies  and  diamonds,  and  she  smelt  most 
deliciously.  Daffy  decided  that  when  she  was  grown 
she  would  take  measures  to  ensure  her  smelling  exactly 
the  same. 

Presently  the  child  observed  that  her  uncle  was  not 
at  all  easy  in  the  presence  of  the  lovely  lady.  He  un- 
folded a  huge  newspaper  and  retired  behind  it,  but 
Daffy,  who  was  sitting  next  to  him,  could  see  that  he 
was  not  reading.  Imagine  Uncle  Tom  reading  with- 
out his  glasses! 

"Isn't  she  pretty?"  whispered  the  child. 

"Hush !"  returned  the  Bishop,  his  upper  lip  pulled 
down  to  meet  the  lower  one,  which  Daffy  had  always 
thought  did  not  quite  fit. 

Night  wore  on,  the  light  was  very  dim,  the  cushions 
very  hard,  the  foot  warmers  were  long  since  icy  to  the 
touch.  Daffy  began  to  think  that  even  the  excite- 
ment of  sitting  up  all  night  did  not  compensate  for 
the  rest  to  small  bodies  conferred  by  beds.  Besides, 
she  was  hungry  again.  This  last  fact  was  made  known 
to  her  uncle  and  he,  with  obvious  unwillingness,  rose 
and  opened  his  big,  pigskin  dressing-case,  bringing 
from  it  a  small  packet  of  biscuits. 

"I  want  a  banana,  please,"  said  Daffy. 

But  the  bananas  were,  as  the  Germans  say,  "all." 

The  biscuit  was  dry  and  turned  to  dust  and  ashes 
in  the  mouth.  Daffy  was  nearly  eleven,  although  she 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  77 

looked  about  seven,  so  very  genteelly  tried  to  conceal 
the  fact  that  she  could  not  possibly  swallow  her  little 
meal. 

Suddenly  the  lovely  lady  leaned  forward,  a  little 
tiny  plate  in  her  hand. 

"May  I  not  give  you  one  of  my  sandwiches?"  she 
said,  with  a  pretty  foreign  accent,  "and  the  chocolate 
is  quite  fresh." 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  returned  the  Bishop 
stiffly,  "my  little  niece  will  do  quite  well  with  her 
biscuits.  You  like  biscuits,  do  you  not,  Daffy?" 

But  Daffy's  eyes  were  glued  to  the  delicate,  moist- 
looking  sandwiches. 

"Please,  Uncle  Tom,  the  biscuits  are  rather  nasty." 

"Very  well,  then,  my  dear,  and  thank  you,  madam." 

Daffy  helped  herself  shyly,  and  oh,  that  sandwich 
was  good !  It  melted  in  her  mouth  and  was  made  of 
she  knew  not  what. 

"Won't  you  have  one  of  these,  too?"  went  on  the 
lady,  obviously  delighted  with  the  little  girl's  pleasure. 

Daffy  hesitated.  One  of  the  two  remaining  sand- 
wiches was  like  the  one  she  had  already  had  and  the 
other  was  black  and  strange-looking,  but  hers  was  an 
adventurous  spirit  and  she  took  the  black  one.  Oh, 
woe !  It  was  salt  and  strange  and  unspeakably  horrid. 
She  could  not  swallow  it,  its  bulk  seemed  to  double  in 
her  mouth.  Her  eyes  filled  with  tears ;  manfully  she 
tried  to  choke  it  down  and  the  lady  burst  into  pretty, 
tinkling  laughter. 

"Poor  little  thing!  Here,  put  it  in  this  piece  of 
paper  and  throw  it  out  of  the  window.  Crachez 


78  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

— how    do    you    say    it? — speet    it    out.      Don't    be 
afraid." 

Daffy  did  so,  and  as  she  was  wiping  her  eyes  the 
lady  went  on. 

"And  now,  Tom  Pember,  it  is  time  you  gave  up 
trying  not  to  recognize  an  old  friend.  'Ow  do  you  do  ?" 

Uncle  Tom,  solemn,  religious,  imposing  Uncle  Tom, 
who  was  nearly  as  old  as  God,  blushed.  Daffy  saw  it 
with  her  own  eyes. 

"I  am  afraid — "  he  began  stiffly. 

But  she  laughed  again.  Daffy  had  never  heard  any 
one  laugh  in  quite  that  way,  it  sounded  like  music; 
and  then  she  went  on  in  voluble  French,  of  which 
Daffy  understood  only  that  her  reverend  relative  was 
being  called  "my  dear"  by  this  strange  lady. 

"Ah,  but  yes,"  went  on  the  lady  in  English,  her 
eyes  dancing  as  she  turned  to  Daffy,  "it  is  very 
strange,  your  dear  Uncle  and  I  are  'ole  frien' — but 
such  *ole  frien',  ma  p'tite.  It  is  many,  many  years 
ago  that  we  were  at  Barbizon  together;  your  uncle 
then  was  very  young  and  had  much  less  fat  than  now. 
He  was  slim,  ah !  of  a  slimness.  But  as  he  had  then 
less — 'ow  do  you  say? — flesh,  so  had  he  then  more 
hair  than  now." 

Uncle  Tom  was  extremely  angry;  Daffy  knew  by 
the  way  his  ears  had  turned  purple,  and  he  said  some- 
thing in  French  in  a  rather  sharp  voice.  But  this  re- 
mark had  no  effect  whatever  on  the  French  lady,  who 
continued  to  laugh.  Then  he  again  opened  his  news- 
paper and  continued  his  transparent  pretense  of  read- 
ing it. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  79 

"Your  dear  uncle  is  ennuye — annoyed,"  she  de- 
clared, shaking  her  head  solemnly.  "It  is  dreadful, 
and  once  we  were  such  great  'friens'.  But  in  those 
days  he  was  not  a  bishop,  oh,  no !  he  was — 'ow  you 
say? — a  painter,  a  rather  bad  painter.  Yes,  he  do  not 
paint  well,  ce  pauvre  Tom.  But  it  make  nothing.  He 
was  young  and  gay  and  we  all  loved  him  very 
moch." 

"That,"  observed  Daffy  solemnly,  •  "was  when  he 
was  a  curate." 

The  lady  burst  out  into  her  tinkling  laugh. 

"Ha,  ha !  No,  he  was  not  a  curate.  Tom,  did  you 
hear?  Put  down  your  silly  paper  and  listen." 

But  Uncle  Tom  read  on. 

"You  remember  the  pony  race  we  had  at  the  fair  at 
Neuilly  and  the  fortune  teller  who  told  you  you  were 
going  to  marry  a  girl  with  a  grain  de  beaute  under 
her  right  eye  and  yellow  hair?" 

"  You  have  a  grain  de  beaute  under  your  right  eye," 
remarked  Daffy,  munching  chocolate. 

Before  the  lady  could  answer  Uncle  Tom  had 
thrown  down  his  paper. 

"Angele !"  he  thundered. 

The  lady  looked  at  him  and  smiled. 

"Ah!  You  remember  my  name?"  she  gaid  softly. 
"It  is  a  preety  name,  is  it  not,  leetle  one?" 

"Does  it  mean  Angel?"  said  Daffy. 

The  lady  leaned  across  and  put  her  hand  on  Daffy's 
knee. 

"No,  dear,  not  angel;  it  is  jost  a  name.  And  now 
let  me  make  you  a  leetle  bed  here  on  the  seat.  I  will 


80  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

lend  you  my  pillow  and  cover  you  with  my  rug.  You 
will  allow  it,  Tom?  'Ow  does  one  say — milor'? — and 
you  will  go  to  sleep." 

There  was  something  appealing  in  her  eyes  as  she 
looked  at  the  Bishop.  He  assented  gravely.  The 
lady's  hands  were  very  gentle.  Her  little  crimson 
leather  pillow  was  very  soft  and  Daffy's  little  inner 
woman  being  comforted  with  foie  gras  and  chocolate, 
warmth  soon  put  her  to  sleep.  She  woke  up  once  or 
twice  as  the  train  rattled  through  the  darkness,  only 
to  stir  slightly  and  drop  off  again.  Once  Uncle  Tom 
was  saying: 

"I  am  very  sorry,  Angele,  very,"  and  the  lovely 
lady  was  blowing  her  nose  softly.  The  next  time  they 
were  both  laughing  and  the  lady  was  saying  in 
French : 

"Will  you  ever  forget  Suzette  Langlois  in  the 
swing?  Poor  Suzette,  to  her  dying  day  she  believed 
those  awful  ankles  of  hers  were  pretty." 

In  the  hurry  of  changing  trains  at  Turin  Daffy, 
who  was  very  sleepy  and  very  cold,  held  out  her 
hand  perfunctorily  to  the  lady,  who  was  going  no 
farther. 

"Good-bye,"  said  the  child  shyly,  "and  thank  you 
very  much." 

"Good-bye,  my  dear.    Tom,  may  I  kiss  her?" 

Uncle  Tom  hesitated.     Then  his  face  changed. 

"Yes,  Angele." 

Daffy  had  never  seen  him  look  at  once  so  kind  and 
so  sad;  it  was  as  if  he  was  very  sorry  for  the  lady 
named  Angele.  The  kiss  was  gentle  and  smelt  good, 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  81 

and  then  the  little  girl  and  her  uncle  got  into  the  wait- 
ing train  and  Daffy  found  in  her  hand  a  little  crooked 
bit  of  coral  set  in  tiny  seed  pearls  and  gold. 

"Oh,  Uncle  Tom,  look,"  she  said.  "The  lady,  An- 
gele,  put  it  into  my  hand.  Do  you  think  she  meant  to 
give  it  to  me?" 

The  Bishop  took  the  trifling  thing  and  looked  at  it 
closely.  He  remembered  it. 

"Yes,  my  dear,  I  think  she  meant  you  to  have  it, 
and — it  can  do  you  no  harm." 

Then  the  train  started. 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  remainder  of  the  journey  was  to  Daffy 
uneventful,  and  the  next  incident  that  re- 
mained in  her  memory  was  the  arrival  at 
Naples. 

They  had  breakfast  on  a  balcony  looking  out  over 
the  wonderful  thing  that  was  the  sea  and  yet  was  so 
utterly  different  from  the  gray  waters  at  home. 

And  after  breakfast  came  a  long  rest,  and  then 
another  short  train  journey  distinguished  only  by  the 
fact  of  Daffy's  seeing  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  a 
man  taking  snuff.  But  the  drive  from  Castellamare 
the  child  never  forgot,  as  indeed  only  a  dull-minded 
person  could.  The  gradual  unfolding  of  the  view,  the 
winding  of  the  road,  the  riot  of  beauty  on  all  sides, 
and  above  all  the  yellow  drenching  sun  that  poured 
down  on  the  world  and  filled  everything  it  touched 
save  the  sea,  the  blueness  of  which  nothing  could 
change. 

The  little  girl  sat  primly  with  her  hands  folded  on 
her  navy  blue  lap,  her  thin  face  intense  and  almost 
grim  with  ecstasy. 

As  for  the  Bishop,  he  went  to  sleep  presently  and 
awoke  greatly  refreshed.  He  was  conscious  of  great 
benevolence  in  bringing  his  niece  on  her  long  journey, 
and  he  knew  that  very  few  busy  men  would  have  been 

82 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  83 

so  unselfish,  but  at  the  same  time  he  was  kind  and 
really  enjoyed  the  child's  delight. 

When  Daffy  had  been  sent  to  take  a  very  necessary 
bath  she  was  put  to  bed  and  at  once  fell  asleep.  When 
morning  came  they  did  not  rouse  her,  she  slept  so 
soundly.  After  breakfast  the  Bishop  and  his  brother- 
in-law  took  a  walk  and  when  they  came  in  toward  noon 
they  sat  in  the  library. 

"A  very  long  journey,"  the  large  man  said,  "and 
fatiguing." 

"It  is  indeed."  Lambe  looked  very  depressed  and 
peeled  a  peach  as  if  it  was  an  endless  job. 

"She  is  a  good  little  thing,  Daphne;  doesn't  talk 
much  and  is  hungry  only  at  regular  intervals." 

Lambe's  eyes  twinkled  suddenly. 

"Ah,  yes ;  Norah  would  see  to  that.  How  is  Norah, 
Tom?" 

"Well — it's  a  compound  fracture — doctors  seem 
satisfied  with  her  progress,  but — a  broken  leg  is  a 
broken  leg,  and  she  won't  be  about  again  for  a  long 
time,  poor  thing." 

"I  see.  I  must  write  to  her.  And  the  little  one,  she 
is  ill,  you  say  ?  She  doesn't  look  it." 

"No.  She  has  asthma  and  she  had  bronchitis  at 
Christmas.  Abdy  said  she  must  get  away  from  the 
fog." 

"Corisande  was  going  to  take  her — somewhere, 
wasn't  she?" 

The  Bishop  fingered  his  cross. 

"Yes,  she  has  a  villa  at  Cannes.  They  were  going 
there  and  at  the  last  minute  something  happened — I 


84  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

believe  she  is  going  to  Russia  now.  You  know  Cori- 
sande  ?" 

"I  do.  Well,  Tom,  there's  no  good  in  my  pretend- 
ing that  I  am  glad  to  have  Daphne  here,  for  I  am  not, 
but  as  it  can't  be  helped,  I'll  do  my  best  to  amuse 
her." 

"Don't  amuse  her,  Christopher.  I  must  tell  you  es- 
pecially not  to  amuse  her.  You  must  get  her  a  gov- 
erness and  she  will  be  busy  all  day.  She  must  never 
go  out  when  it's  damp,  and  you  must  impress  the  gov- 
erness with  the  importance  of  seeing  that  her  feet  are 
always  kept  dry.  She  goes  to  bed  at  eight  and  gets 
up  at  seven." 

"Oh !" 

"She  never  eats  sweets,  of  course.  Her  bath  must 
be  60° — let  me  see — "  The  Bishop  took  a  small  note 
book  from  his  pocket  and  opening  it  put  on  his  glasses 
and  continued :  "Sixty  degrees — yes — and  you  are  to 
see  that  she  drinks  her  milk  hot.  It  appears  that  she 
dislikes  milk  and  is  inclined  to  make  a  fuss  about 
drinking  it.  She  must  be  watched  in  regard  to  her  hat, 
as  she  has  a  way  of  going  about  bareheaded,  which  is 
bad  for  her.  I  think  that's  all,  except  that  you  are  not 
to  forget  to  give  her  a  mutton  chop  or  a  bit  of  under- 
done beefsteak  for  her  lunch  every  day — " 

"Oh,  my  God !"  said  Christopher  Lambe. 

The  Bishop  stared,  offended  and  annoyed,  as  his 
brother-in-law  rose. 

"What's  the  matter,  Lambe?" 

"Nothing.  Or — everything.  Look  here,  Tom,  I 
am  perfectly  willing  to  do  my  best  for  the  child,  but  I 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  85 

won't  do  Norah's  best.  Do  you  see?  Norah  sent  her 
here  to  me  for  me  to  look  after  and  I'm  going  to  do  it 
in  my  own  way.  Tell  Norah  this,  will  you?  Tear  up 
your  notes,  they're  no  good  to  me.  Now,  it's  lunch 
time.  Come  along  and  eat." 

He  led  the  way  through  a  long,  cool  marble  corri- 
dor into  the  dining  room,  and  as  Thomas  was  already 
at  his  post,  no  more  was  said. 

They  sat  down  and  Lambe  turned  to  Thomas. 

"Miss  Daphne  has  come,"  he  said.  "She  is  in  the 
yellow  room.  Tell  her  that  luncheon  is  ready." 

Daphne,  whose  small  face  was  thin  and  pointed, 
came  in  quite  quietly  and  slid  up  into  her  great  chair 
by  some  queer  system  of  leg  movement  invented  by 
herself.  Then  as  Thomas  set  a  plate  of  macaroni 
before  her  she  smiled  suddenly. 

"Are  there  no  chops?"  she  asked. 

"No,"  said  Lambe. 

"Oh,  dear,  I'm  so  glad !" 

The  Bishop  frowned,  but  Lambe  laughed. 

"The  mutton  here  is  very  bad.  I  haven't  seen  a 
chop  for  months.  Now,  then,  eat  your  macaroni. 
Here,  have  some  cheese  in  it." 

With  a  liberal  hand  he  sprinkled  grated  Parmesan 
on  the  child's  plate  and  then  turned  to  his  brother-in- 
law. 

"Red  or  white  wine,  Tom?" 

Daffy  loved  cheese,  which  she  had  never  tasted  be- 
fore. And  she  loved  the  queer  little  dark  fish  fried  in 
oil,  and  the  sweet  made  of  she  knew  not  what,  but 
which  was  covered  with  what  she  at  first  thought  was 


86  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

grated  cheese,  but  which  her  father  told  her  was  cocoa- 
nut. 

The  Bishop,  a  mighty  trencherman,  was  hungrier 
than  usual  after  his  long  journey  and  his  long  sleep, 
and,  after  all,  Daphne  was  Kit's  daughter,  not  his. 
He  had  done  his  best.  So  he  ate  his  strange  luncheon 
with  a  relish  and  gave  Lambe  various  items  of  family 
news  as  he  did  so.  Otho's  new  baby  was  another  girl, 
a  very  great  disappointment.  Otho  had  bought  the 
Sandf ord  farm,  a  rather  dear  purchase,  but  it  rounded 
off  the  north  end  of  the  estate.  Little  Birdie  Sarre 
was  engaged  to  one  of  the  Herefordshire  Wilbrahams 
— a  chap  who  left  one  arm  in  South  Africa.  Sarre 
himself  was  awfully  in  debt,  borrowing  from  every- 
body. 

"He  hasn't  borrowed  from  me,"  declared  Lambe, 
building  a  tower  of  glasses,  to  Daffy's  tremulous 
delight. 

"No,  he  hates  you." 

Lambe  looked  up  surprised. 

"You  mean  to  say  he  still  resents  my  having  mar- 
ried Norah?" 

"Hush!"  The  Bishop's  eyes  traveled  rapidly  from 
Lambe  to  Daffy  and  back  again,  but  Lambe  took  no 
notice  whatsoever  of  his  signal. 

"That's  extraordinary — after  all  these  years.  Poor 
old  Bill!" 

He  was  hopeless.  Mentally  the  Bishop  rehearsed 
the  way  in  which  he  should  explain  Lambe's  attitude. 
"He  always  behaves,"  he  would  say,  "as  if  he  and  the 
person  to  whom  he  speaks  were  quite  alone.  He  dis- 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  87 

regards  the  presence  of  any  one  else.  What  he  will 
make  of  Daphne,  heaven  only  knows !"  Here  he  was 
interrupted  by  the  voice  of  the  child,  the  making  of 
whom  was  in  such  strange  hands. 

"Father,  may  I  have  another  of  those  green 
things?" 

The  green  things  were  pistachio  sweets,  and  Lambe 
promptly  gave  her  two. 

After  lunch  the  Bishop  took  a  nap  and  at  about 
six  he  left  to  go  back  to  Naples. 

"I  am  very  busy  just  now,"  he  said,  half  apologeti- 
cally, half  from  an  ungenerous  wish  to  convey  to  the 
ungrateful  Lambe  how  difficult  it  had  been  for  a  man 
of  his  importance  to  take  such  a  long  journey  out  of 
pure  kindness  of  heart. 

"I  dare  say.  It  was  very  good  of  you  to  bring  her. 
Tell  Norah  I'll  do  my  best  for  her.  And — I  hope 
Norah's  arm — " 

"Leg,"  corrected  the  Bishop. 

"Leg — will  soon  get  all  right.  Good-bye,  Tom. 
Many  thanks." 

But  his  thanks  were  obviously  those  of  pure  per- 
functoriness.  When  the  carriage  had  rolled  away 
among  the  great  palm  trees  to  the  lodge  gates  Lambe 
and  Daffy  went  down  the  stone  steps  to  the  little 
beach. 

"Wouldn't  you  like  to  paddle?" 

"Oh,  father— I  don't  think  mother'd  like  it,"  she 
answered,  her  eyes  shining. 

He  sat  down  on  the  side  of  a  disabled  fishing  boat 
and  he  stood  her  between  his  knees. 


88  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"Now,  look  here,  Tiny  Tim,"  he  said  seriously,  "I 
must  talk  to  you.  When  you  are  in  England  it  is 
quite  right  that  you  should  obey  your  mother.  You'd 
be  a  little  beast  if  you  didn't,  and  besides — she'd  pun- 
ish you.  But  now  you  are  in  Italy,  and  with  me. 
Your  mother  is  very  good.  Much  more  good  than  I 
am  in  every  way.  But  she  isn't  here,  and  as  little  girls 
have  to  obey  some  one,  it's  me  you'll  obey  here.  It 
won't  hurt  you  to  paddle  in  this  warm  water.  It  won't 
hurt  you  to  eat  Italian  food,  and  so  you  are  to  eat  it. 
You  are  not  to  have  a  governess  for  the  present,  and 
as  I  don't  know  how  to  teach  you,  you'll  have  to  do 
without  lessons.  Mrs.  Screach  will  help  you  dress  and 
so  on.  The  rest  of  the  time  you  can  do  what  you  like 
— unless  I  tell  you  not  to.  Do  you  understand?" 

Daffy,  very  naturally,  did  not  understand,  but  the 
vista  of  unholy  joys  thus  opened  to  her  was  too  en- 
chanting for  words.  So  she  said  nothing,  answering 
only  by  a  smile. 

Lambe  smiled  back.  Then  he  touched  the  brown 
mole  on  her  cheek  with  one  finger. 

"Now,  then,  off  with  your  shoes  and  stockings.  I'll 
sit  here." 

While  she  played  at  the  edge  of  the  sea  he  smoked 
and  presently  sauntered  away  back  to  the  house  by 
way  of  the  Cascade  Garden. 

Then  realizing  the  distance  thai  lay  between  her 
and  that  arbiter  of  fate,  she  gathered  up  her  shoes 
and  stockings  and  sped  barefoot  up  the  stone  steps. 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  next  few  weeks  passed  uneventfully  to 
outward  seeming,  but  they  were  of  the  great- 
est importance  to  Daphne  Lambe.  The  sud- 
den change  from  a  life  of  the  narrowest  and 
most  incessant  supervision  to  one  of  almost  absolute 
freedom  was  in  itself  memorable  enough  to  a  child,  but 
to  her  the  greatest  charm  of  the  wonder-worked  situa- 
tion was — her  father.  She  had  been  nearly  a  baby  when 
he  left  home;  now  she  was  nearly  eleven  and  an  ex- 
ceptionally observant  small  person  whose  solemn  dark 
eyes  saw  much  more  than  most  grown  people's. 

And  Lambe  interested  his  daughter  as  much  as  her 
mother  had  bored  her. 

The  little  man's  innocence  of  fixed  hours,  his  disre- 
gard of  "must,"  were  a  source  of  the  most  fascinated 
surprise  to  the  child. 

"Lunch?  Oh,  any  time  from  twelve  to  two.  De- 
pends, you  see,  on  what  I'm  doing.  Dinner — well, 
yes,  you  must  have  your  dinner  at  a  Christian  hour,  I 
suppose.  I  am  told  that  children's  insides  must  be 
considered.  You  may  dine  at  seven  always,  and  I'll 
dine  with  you  sometimes.  Do  you  like  roast,  kid?" 

Then  there  was  the  all-important  question  of  bed- 
time. 

"Sleepy?"  he  asked  her  the  first  evening  about 
eight. 


90  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

No,  Daffy  was  not  sleepy. 

"Well,  the  bed  is  there,  you  know.  You  may  go 
whenever  you  care  to.  Mrs.  Screach  will  put  you  to 
bed." 

"I  can  put  myself  to  bed,"  returned  Daffy  with  dig- 
nity. "Mother  says  every  child  of  six  should  be  able 
to  undress  and  at  eight  every  child  should  be  able  to 
dress — all  except  washing,  and  that's  on  account  of 
the  ears." 

"Dear  me,"  murmured  Lambe. 

"Yes,  I  can't  do  my  ears  yet,  but  Sylvia  and  Susan 
can." 

This  piece  of  domestic  intelligence  left  Christopher 
Lambe  quite  cold. 

Mrs.  Screach,  a  full-bosomed,  highly  colored  Ital- 
ian peasant,  taken  to  wife  by  the  impressionable 
Screach  a  year  before,  was  the  proud  possessor  of  a 
small  Screach  of  six  months.  Angiolino  was  a  nice 
baby  and  to  him  Daffy  at  once  became  deeply  at- 
tached. This  attachment  in  its  turn  drew  Aurora  to 
her  new  charge,  and  Daffy  was  well  looked  after  by 
the  light  moraled  Italian  woman,  whose  touch 
would  have  been  regarded  by  Lady  Norah  as  contam- 
ination. 

Aurora  was  the  owner  of  a  very  soft  and  pretty 
contralto  voice,  and  every  evening  when  Daffy  was  in 
bed  (the  tiny  Angiolino  being  tucked  away  in  his  bed 
in  the  servants'  quarters)  the  pretty  woman  sang  the 
songs  of  the  countryside  to  her  master's  little  daugh- 
ter. Daffy's  voice  was  the  voice  of  a  crow,  but  she 
had  a  quick  memory,  and  in  a  short  time  was  herself 


THE  GREfcN  PATCH  91 

singing  in  the  Sorrento  dialect  as  she  roamed  about 
the  garden. 

Her  aptitude  was  vast  and  it  amused  Lambe  to  see 
her  serious  application  to  her  food. 

One  day  Donna  Mabel  Acquadolce  came  in  while 
Lambe  and  Daffy  were  at  lunch. 

"A  little  daughter?    And  you  never  let  me  know?" 

Donna  Mabel's  faded  eyes  rolled  reproachfully  at 
Lambe. 

"Why  should  I?"  he  asked. 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"You  surely  knew  I'd  take  an  interest?" 

Poor  Lambe  was  a  very  impolite  man  sometimes 
through  a  lack  in  him  of  a  certain  quality  hard  to 
define — the  quality  of  seeing  the  other  side.  But  even 
he  could  hardly  express  to  his  well-meaning  neighbor 
his  inward  groan  and  ejaculation  of  "Take  an  in- 
terest !  Good  Lord,  if  only  you  didn't!"  So  he  said 
nothing. 

Donna  Mabel  then  proceeded  to  that  awful  task  of 
making  herself  agreeable  to  the  little  girl. 

Daffy  regarded  her  solemnly,  answering  her  ques- 
tions with  civility,  but  volunteering,  Lambe  observed 
with  a  spasm  of  unjustifiable  pleasure,  not  one  word 
of  unnecessary  information. 

"And  how  you  must  long  for  your  dear  little  sis- 
ters," Donna  Mabel  said  at  last. 

Daffy,  who  was  eating  a  banana,  shook  her  head. 

"No,  I  don't,"  she  declared. 

"Don't  wish  your  sisters  were  here?" 

"No."     The  banana  was  good,  but  there  was  an- 


9$  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

other  in  the  dish  before  her  and  Daffy  was  afraid 
that  Donna  Mabel  might  take  it,  so  she  was  in  a  hurry 
and  spoke  curtly. 

"But  why?    Surely  you  love  them?" 

Daffy  bolted  the  last  bit  of  banana  number  one  and 
helped  herself  to  banana  number  two  before  she  an- 
swered. Then  she  said: 

"Y-yes — I  suppose  I  love  them." 

Donna  Mabel  was  honestly  shocked.  A  real  red 
crept  under  her  paint,  turning  it  a  slightly  bluish  hue. 

"My  dear,  what  a  naughty  little  girl  you  must  be !" 

"I  ain't  a  naughty  little  girl,"  retorted  Daffy  stol- 
idly, busy  with  her  banana. 

"But—" 

"Donna  Mabel,"  interrupted  Lambe  in  Italian, 
"please  don't  tease  her." 

"I  am  not  teasing  her.  It — it  interests  me.  I 
can't  understand  it  at  all.  And  such  a  good  mother, 
too." 

"Bad  father,  remember,"  he  murmured.  But  he 
sent  Daffy  from  the  room  and  then  laid  down  to  his 
injured  guest  the  law  that  was  to  govern  her  future 
intercourse  with  his  daughter. 

"Queer?  Of  course  she's  queer,  thank  God.  The 
other  two  are  commonplace  enough,  judging  by  what 
my  brother-in-law  said  about  'em.  They  will  be  ironed 
out  as  smooth  as  linen  collars — all  the  interesting  little 
creases  in  their  minds  starched  and  smoothed  away. 
Let  this  one  alone.  I — I  am  beginning  to  like  her 
and  I'm  not  going  to  have  her  spoiled." 

Donna  Mabel  drove  home  in  one  of  her  ineffectual 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  93 

little  rages  that  invariably  died  away  within  an  hour 
or  so.  She  loved  new  people  and  adored  what  she 
called  taking  an  interest  in  people. 

Daphne  Lambe  was  only  a  rather  ugly,  very  badly 
dressed  child  of  eleven,  but  she  was  new  to  her,  and 
being  Christopher  Lambe's  daughter  lent  an  added 
charm  to  her.  Donna  Mabel  would  have  loved  to 
"mother"  Daffy.  But  it  was  not  to  be.  Daffy  was  to 
be  let  alone. 

And  through  a  series  of  unforeseeable  circumstances 
the  letting  alone  system  was  allowed  to  flourish  for 
several  months. 

When  June  came  and  the  child  was  to  be  taken 
home,  Susan  suddenly  developed  measles,  and  as  both 
Lady  Norah  and  Sylvia  caught  the  disease  from  her, 
Lambe  was  informed  by  wire  that  Daphne  was  to  stay 
on  with  him. 

To  his  surprise,  his  dominant  feeling  was  one  of 
satisfaction.  Daffy  was  a  pleasant  person  in  one's 
house.  She  was  never  in  the  way,  never  at  a  loss  for 
an  occupation  or  amusement,  and  her  look  of  improved 
health  pleased  and  flattered  her  father. 

"You  are  glad  you  are  to  stay?"  he  asked,  on  the 
receipt  of  the  wire. 

"Oh,  father!"  She  said  no  more,  but  it  was  enough. 

Then  came  the  journey  to  Paris. 

It  came  over  Lambe  one  very  warm  June  evening 
as  he  smoked  on  the  terrace.  Paris !  He  had  not  been 
there  for  a  year  and  a  half,  and  on  such  a  night  as 
this  Paris  would  be  at  its — or  her — best.  He  closed 
his  eyes  for  a  moment  and  different  aspects  of  the 


94  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Ville  Coquette  passed  through  his  mind  in  a  visionary 
pageant. 

Yes,  he  must  go.  After  Paris  he  would  go  some- 
where in  the  mountains  to  get  a  thorough  cooling 
down.  "St.  Augustin;  or — yes,  St.  Augustin,  by 
Jove,  and  I'll  eat  their  Louvois  cream  cheese  and  go 
to  sleep  to  the  music  of  the  waterfall !" 

He  threw  his  cigarette  over  the  parapet  and  walked 
quickly  to  the  house. 

"Thomas,  pack  up.  We  are  going  to  Paris  to- 
morrow." 

Thomas  bowed  and  went  away  to  make  his  arrange- 
ments. Presently  he  came  back. 

"Beg  pardon,  sir,  but  the  wife  says  you  can't  possi- 
bly go  to-morrow,"  he  said. 

Lambe  looked  up  from  his  book. 

"Can't  go?  Your  wife  says  I  can't  go?  What  on 
earth—" 

"Because  Miss  Daphne  'asn't  no  clothes  that  would 
do,  sir,"  he  returned,  "and  they  couldn't  be  got  no- 
how before  Tuesday  or  Wednesday." 

Lambe  sank  into  the  chair  from  which  he  had  risen 
in  his  amazement. 

"Oh,  yes,  Miss  Daphne,"  he  said  faintly.  "Does — 
does  Mrs.  Screach  think  I  must  take  her  with  me, 
Thomas?" 

Thomas  Screach  was  a  big,  heavily  built  man  with 
a  stupid,  honest  face.  Now  he  looked  at  his  master  as 
if  he,  Lambe,  were  an  irresponsible  child. 

"In  course  she  does,  sir." 

So  Daffy   went  to  Paris.     Not,  however,  before 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  95 

Lambe  asked  her  if  she  would  not  prefer  to  stay  up 
on  the  hill  with  Donna  Mabel. 

"No,  father,  I'll  come  with  you,  please,"  she  an- 
swered. "I  don't  like  Donna  Mabel." 

The  clothes  problem  was  solved  very  simply.  They 
would  do  the  necessary  shopping  in  Paris.  This  they 
did  and  it  may  be  remarked  that  they  both  thoroughly 
enjoyed  it. 

They  put  up  at  a  cheerful  white  and  gold  hotel  in 
the  Champs  Elysees,  they  lunched  wherever  they  hap- 
pened to  be  when  hunger  attacked  them,  and  Daffy 
was  shown  the  Venus,  the  Eiffel  Tower,  the  Concierg- 
erie,  Notre  Dame,  and  the  Jardin  des  Plantes.  When 
she  was  in  bed  Lambe  went  to  the  plays  he  loved  or  for 
long,  aimless,  delightful  walks  through  the  vivid 
streets. 

Lady  Rayburnham,  Daffy's  eldest  Pember  aunt, 
wrote  home  about  this  time  to  her  sister : 

"I  had  a  most  amusing  rencontre  yesterday  in  the 
rue  de  la  Paix.  I  was  coming  out  of  Worth's  when 
I  heard  my  name  bellowed  very  loud,  and  turning,  I 
saw  a  little  man  in  white  flannel  clothes  of  weird  cut 
and  a  shabby  Panama  hat.  With  him  a  thin-legged 
monkey  of  a  child  in  a  preposterously  short  white  em- 
broidered frock  (the  skirt  like  a  ballet  skirt),  a  huge 
hat  made  of  stiff  white  frills,  a  blue  sash  and  blue 
shoes  and  socks.  Its  arms  were  bare  but  for  short 
blue  mitts  and  it  carried  a  ridiculous  scrap  of  a  blue 
sunshade. 

"I  didn't  know  them  from  the  dead,  for  I  hadn't 
seen  him  for  ten  years  and  her  for  four,  but  you  will 


96  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

guess  who  they  were.  They  seemed  very  glad  to  see 
me  and  insisted  on  taking  me  to  a  cafe  for  tea.  He 
looks  well,  and  in  spite  of  his  many  wrinkles  (far  more 
than  Dick  has,  in  spite  of  our  six  years  in  India!)  he 
looks  very  boyish,  as  if  he  had  changed  his  skin  for  a 
red  man's,  more  than  anything  else.  Daphne,  poor 
little  figure  of  fun,  chattered  away  to  him  as  if  he 
were  her  brother.  They  had  bought  the  clothes  at 
one  of  the  big  shops  the  day  before  and  were  very 
pleased  with  them. 

"They  are  going  on  into  the  Vosges  to-morrow.  I 
wish  you  could  have  her  back,  my  dear  Norah,  for 
while  I  am  sure  poor  Christopher  means  well,  he  is 
certainly  spoiling  the  child  and  rendering  her  quite 
unfit  for  Lambe  House.  .  .  ." 

Lady  Norah  telegraphed  the  day  she  received  this 
letter,  but  Lambe,  with  a  chuckle,  crumpled  the  blue 
paper  into  his  pocket  and  left  it  unanswered.  It 
amused  him  to  have  his  wife  wish  for  Daffy.  He  liked 
the  child  and  they  enjoyed  each  other's  society  in  a 
way  he  would  have  thought  impossible  a  few  weeks 
ago. 

They  went  to  St.  Augustin,  a  scrap  of  a  village, 
set  in  an  enclosed,  green  valley  not  far  from  La 
Schlucht,  and  stayed  there  for  a  month.  Then,  on  their 
return  to  Paris  he  found  letters  which  forced  him  to 
hand  the  child  over  to  Lady  Corisande  Peplow,  who 
was  on  her  way  home  from  Russia  and  who  had  ar- 
ranged with  her  sister  to  conduct  her  charge  to  the 
very  doors  of  Lambe  House. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  change  was  very  marked  to  the  child. 
She  had  been  in  warm,  sunny  places  with  a 
merry  little  madman  for  her  companion,  and 
her  own  wishes  her  only  rules  in  life. 

She  came  back  into  a  cold,  wet  August,  into  an 
iron-ruled  household,  into  the  unsympathetic  atmos- 
phere of  her  two  sisters. 

There  is  a  suggestion  of  the  Cinderella  situation  in 
the  foregoing  sentence  that  must  be  at  once  explained 
away. 

Daffy  Lambe  was  not  of  the  stuff  of  which  Cin- 
derellas  are  made. 

Her  father  had  spoiled  her  and  given  her  a  quite 
new  and  most  delightful  sense  of  her  own  importance 
in  the  scheme  of  things. 

She  had  learned  to  talk,  to  express  her  thoughts, 
and  her  tongue,  when  she  was  angry,  was  fluent  and 
viperish. 

Susan,  who  enjoyed  baiting  her,  found  to  her  sur- 
prise that  "the  little  brown  one,"  as  Daffy  was  known 
by  the  fisherf  oik,  was  no  longer  an  enemy  to  be  under- 
rated. 

Battles  were  frequent  and  Susan  on  one  occasion 
went  to  the  length  of  weeping  under  some  onslaught 
of  her  junior. 

97 


98  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Lady  Norah  was  deeply  distressed.  To  her  mind 
there  was  something  vulgar  in  the  idea  of  sisters  quar- 
reling. In  her  own  family  life  the  brothers  had  bullied 
the  sisters  in  a  polite  British  way,  but  the  girls  had 
consistently  held  together  in  a  band  against  the  boys. 
And  here  was  Daffy,  spoiled  by  her  Italian  experi- 
ences, making  Susan  cry ! 

Susan  possessed  the  gift  of  being  as  disagreeable 
as  she  chose  to  one  person,  and  at  the  same  time  main- 
taining her  innocence  in  the  eyes  of  all  but  her  vic- 
tim. Lady  Norah  never  to  the  end  of  her  life  saw 
why  Daffy  became  so  furious  with  her  sister;  but  it 
was  evident  to  the  meanest  comprehension  when  Daffy 
meant  to  be  nasty.  The  child's  eyes  held  on  these 
occasions  a  positive  blaze  of  light  and  her  too  short 
upper  lip  lifted  in  the  middle,  showing  a  glint  of 
white  teeth. 

"Daphne,  you  are  being  very  naughty  indeed,"  was 
poor  Lady  Norah's  constant  cry,  and  to  it  Daffy  gave 
no  answer  whatever. 

For  about  a  month  the  battle  raged  continuously, 
and  at  the  end  of  that  time  Susan  retired,  worsted, 
from  open  conflict  and  a  kind  of  armed  peace  reigned. 

It  was  now  September,  and  a  golden  and  blue  one, 
such  as  is  but  seldom  vouchsafed  to  our  gray  shores. 
It  is  as  if  beaming,  sunny  days  came  to  us  from  across 
the  sea,  only  to  retire,  frightened  by  the  dull  clouds 
and, heavy  atmosphere  presented  to  them. 

Lambe  House  was  at  its  best  that  year  and  the  chil- 
dren were  down  by  the  sea  for  hours  every  day.  The 
neuralgic  Ruggles  had  some  time  since  been  super- 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  99 

seded  by  what  was  known  in  the  household  as  "a  f  raii- 
lein."  It  is  to  be  supposed  that  the  four-cornered 
Teutonic  lady  with  the  porous  nose  had  a  surname, 
and  Lady  Norah  must  have  known  it,  but  on  entering 
Lambe  House  the  surname  was  lost  and  its  owner  be- 
came once  and  for  all  "Frawline."  She  did  not  mind. 
She  was  a  good  soul  and  minded  nothing,  apparently. 
Lady  Norah  believed  her  state  of  acceptance  to  mean 
perfect  bliss,  reasoning,  "poor  soul,  she  has  certainly 
never  before  been  comfortable,"  and  Lady  Norah  was 
very  kind  to  the  alien. 

But  if  Frawline's  mind  could  have  been  read  what 
would  have  been  Lady  Norah's  amazement  to  find  that 
the  governess's  quiescence  was  that  of  any  white  man's 
while  in  lucrative  captivity  among  some  negro  tribe  in 
Africa. 

"Ach!"  she  wrote  to  her  Verlobter,  a  Koniglich 
Wiirtemberg'sche  Postbeamter,  "I  get  sometimes  so 
hungry  for  some  really  good  food,  my  heart  beloved. 
For  some  of  your  mother's  potato  dumplings  and 
some  herring,  what  would  I  not  give !  They  are  very 
kind  to  me.  The  lady  is  pleasant,  but  it  is  not  gemuth- 
lich,  and  they  live  in  a  draught.  What  the  winter  will 
be  with  no  stoves  the  dear  heaven  only  knows.  The 
children  are  beautiful  as  angels  (two  of  them),  but 
their  clothes  are  not  at  all  praktisch  and  to  my  taste 
very  ugly,  but  then  English  people  cannot  be  expected 
to  have  good  taste." 

Frawline  taught  the  children  German,  French, 
geography,  arithmetic,  history  and  music.  She  was 
an  excellent  teacher  and  the  children  liked  her.  Sylvia, 


100  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

who  was  fundamentally  stupid,  learned  her  little  les- 
sons with  ease,  Susan  exactly  what  was  strictly  neces- 
sary, and  Daffy,  but  for  languages,  presented  to  the 
onslaught  of  education  an  impenetrable  and  impreg- 
nable front.  She  learned  during  that  year  absolutely 
nothing.  It  was  not  wilfulness  nor  stupidity,  it  was  a 
kind  of  temporary  paralysis  of  the  acquiring  nerve. 

"I  do  try,"  she  told  her  mother,  "only  I  don't  seem 
to  be  able  to  hear.  To  listen,  I  mean." 

Frawline  was  patience  itself,  for  was  she  not  earn- 
ing the  wherewithal  to  build  for  herself  and  the  bow- 
legged  idol  of  her  life  a  nest  in  delightful  and  highly 
civilized  Wiirtemberg?  She  was  patient  and  kind,  but 
occasionally  she  called  Daffy  dumm,  and  this  word  was 
cherished  by  Susan. 

In  the  matter  of  music  things  went  better  for  Daffy. 
Her  long,  thin,  brown  hands  were  possessed  of  an  ex- 
traordinary agility;  they  flew  over  the  keys  in  un- 
stumbling  haste  that  delighted  her  instructor,  and 
while  Susan,  who  was  really  musical,  was  still  strug- 
gling with  the  simplest  melodies,  Daffy  soared  far 
above  her  in  selections  from  Schumann  and  even 
Chopin,  to  say  nothing  of  some  obscure  masters.  The 
fact  that  Daffy  was  utterly  unmusical  never  occurred 
to  any  of  the  household ;  she  could  play,  and  that  was 
enough. 

Poor  Susan,  blundering  up  the  thorny  path,  adored 
the  music  she  could  not  make  and  when  quite  alone 
"she  could  pick  out  things  by  ear"  quite  remarkably. 

Sylvia's  piano  lessons  had  been  given  up  as  hope- 
less after  a  few  months'  practice,  owing  to  the  fact 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  101 

that  she  literally  could  not  tell  one  tune  from  another. 
At  this  time  the  Lambe  girls  were  respectively  fifteen, 
thirteen  and  eleven. 

Sylvia  was  tall,  and,  as  it  were,  beautiful  through 
her  fat,  for  too  fat  she  was.  Her  wonderful  hair  was 
now  plaited,  but  it  curled  above  her  brow  and  hung  in 
a  thick  cable  to  her  hips.  Her  little  nose  would  have 
been  a  joy  to  any  sculptor,  whereas  her  coloring,  in 
spite  of  an  almost  constantly  out-of-door  life,  was  as 
delicate  as  the  inside  of  a  beautiful  shell.  Her  beauty 
was  too  great  to  be  ignored  even  by  herself,  but  it 
was  luckily  too  great  to  be  a  source  of  vanity  to  her. 
Even  at  that  time  her  faults  were  almost  entirely 
negative,  whereas  Daffy's  were  like  her  virtues,  when 
these  latter  began  to  develop,  distinctly  positive. 

Alas,  that  year  when  she  was  eleven  Daffy's  virtues 
were  invisible  to  the  naked  eye  of  outside  observation, 
whereas  her  faults  loomed  large.  She  lied,  she  stole, 
her  temper  was  furious  and  reusable  by  the  slightest 
word. 

The  story  of  the  necklet  will  illustrate  what  life 
in  the  schoolroom  was  at  that  time  at  Lambe  House. 

Just  before  Christmas  Hughie  Gunning  came  down 
for  a  few  days  and  brought  each  of  the  girls  a  necklet. 
Daffy's  was  of  green-blue  iridescent  shells  from  the 
South  Sea,  an  exquisite  trifle  that  looked  like  moon- 
light and  fire  and  deep  sea  waters. 

Susan's  was  of  coral,  smoothly  polished  beads  of 
a  deep  pink,  and  Sylvia's  was  a  little  twisted  coil 
of  tiny  seed  pearls  with  an  enchanting  tassel  at  the 
clasp. 


102  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

None  of  the  children  had  the  slightest  idea  of  the 
relative  value  of  the  gifts ;  to  them  the  shells  might 
have  been  more  precious  than  the  pearls.  The  trouble 
came,  as  usual,  through  Susan. 

One  mild  afternoon  a  few  days  after  Christmas  they 
went  for  a  long  walk  over  the  downs  toward  Rotting- 
dean.  Frawline,  puffing  along  behind  them,  contented 
herself  with  keeping  them  in  sight,  so  their  talk  was 
unrestrained. 

"I  wish  Hughie  hadn't  had  to  go,"  remarked  Daffy, 
gazing  at  the  sea,  "he  is  so  nice." 

"I  suppose  his  mother  wanted  him."  Sylvia's  ob- 
servations were  never  brilliant. 

"Yes.  But  I  don't  see  why  he  had  to  go  so  soon. 
Donna  Mabel  would  have  forgotten  she  wanted  him 
if  he  had  waited.  I  know  her !" 

Susan  laughed.  "You  needn't  remind  us  that  you 
have  been  to  Italy,"  she  answered,  "we  know  that  quite 
well,  thanks." 

"I  wasn't  reminding  you — " 

"Don't  squabble,  girls,"  put  in  Sylvia,  yawning. 

"Susan's  so  disagreeable,"  growled  Daffy  in  the 
absurd  deep  note  that  came  to  her  voice  when  she  was 
moved. 

Susan,  who  was  bored  by  the  walk,  laughed. 

"Oh,  yes,  Susan  the  wicked  is  always  to  blame,  isn't 
she  ?  And  the  angelic  Daffy — " 

"Shut  up,  girls."  Sylvia  yawned  again,  showing 
every  one  of  her  wonderful  teeth  that  to  this  day  are 
untouched  by  a  dentist's  hands. 

"All  right,  dear.     Come  along,  Syl,  let's  walk  on 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  103 

ahead  and  let  Daffy  come  with  Frawline.  I  have 
something  to  tell  you." 

Daffy  made  a  hideous  face  at  her  immediate  senior. 

"Sylvia's  my  sister  as  well  as  yours,  Susan  Lambe," 
she  cried,  "and  you  are  disagreeable.  Hughie  was 
awfully  cross  with  you  the  other  day  for  being  nasty 
to  me.  He  called  you  a  little  beast,  and  you  know  it." 

"He  was  joking." 

"He  wasn't.    And  anyhow — " 

Susan's  bow-shaped  mouth  stretched  into  a  perfect 
smile. 

"Anyhow,  your  beloved  Hughie  likes  me  better  than 
he  likes  you." 

"He  doesn't"  roared  Daffy,  now  thoroughly 
roused. 

"Then  why  did  he  give  me  a  nicer  necklace  than 
yours?"  leered  Susan. 

"Pooh !  Corals  aren't  half  so  nice  as  my  lovely  lit- 
tle shells.  Peasant  girls  wear  them  in  Italy — " 

Susan  stood  still  in  the  path  and  assumed  her  most 
grown-up  air. 

"Listen  to  this,  Daphne,"  she  said,  "this  very  morn- 
ing I  heard  nurse  tell  Frawline  that  those  shells  cost 
four-and-six  in  her  own  brother's  shop  at  Bexhill.  So 
there!" 

Now  Daffy,  with  all  her  faults,  was  not  sordid. 
The  actual  fact  that  her  necklet  was  less  valuable  than 
Susan's  meant  nothing  to  her,  but  she  loved  Hughie 
Gunning  and  she  was  bitterly  jealous  of  his  affection 
for  Susan.  It  was,  even  then,  an  understood  thing 
that  he  loved  Sylvia  the  best  of  the  three,  but  Daffy 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 

had  believed  herself  to  be  his  second  favorite,  as  in- 
deed she  was. 

This  story  of  Susan's,  however,  convinced  her  that 
even  Susan  was  preferred  to  her  by  the  young  man. 
It  was  as  if  the  sky  had  darkened. 

Then  the  elder  girls  walked  on  with  linked  arms  and 
Daffy  followed  in  unbroken  silence. 

That  night  when  the  whole  household  slept  a  small 
white  figure  crept  from  her  bed  to  Susan's  little  dress- 
ing-table and  extracted  from  the  silver  box  where 
Susan  kept  her  treasures  the  coral  necklet.  Then, 
wrapped  in  her  ugly  brown  flannel  dressing-gown, 
Daffy  went  downstairs  and  out  into  the  foggy  dark- 
ness. Going  to  the  tree  where  the  cache  was,  she  with 
some  difficulty,  hampered  by  her  long  garments  and 
knitted  slippers,  dropped  the  corals  into  the  hollow. 

The  next  day,  when  accused  by  the  frantic  Susan 
as  the  probable  author  of  her  loss,  the  child  denied  so 
obstinately  any  knowledge  of  the  necklet  that  Lady 
Norah  perforce  believed  her. 

"It  is  very  strange,"  she  added,  still  a  little  doubt- 
ful. 

"Lots  of  things  are  strange,"  returned  Daffy,  the 
wisdom  of  which  remark  there  was  no  gainsaying. 

But  Susan  knew  and  did  not  forget. 

Poor  Daffy,  she  was  so  utterly  wicked  and  unprin- 
cipled in  spite  of  all  the  religious  instruction  con- 
scientiously doled  out  to  her  by  her  mother,  it  is  a 
wonder  that  any  good  thing  could  exist  in  such  a  little 
mass  of  sinfulness.  And  yet  she  was  warm-hearted, 
loving  violently  those  few  people  whom  she  loved  at 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  105 

all,  and  she  would  have  gone  to  the  stake  for  either 
her  father,  Hughie  Gunning  or  little  Angiolino 
Screach,  the  three  creatures  in  the  whole  world  who, 
she  believed,  loved  her. 

Gunning  still  has  the  letter  she  wrote  him  a  day  or 
two  after  the  episode  of  the  necklet : 

"DEAR  HUGHIE: 

"You  do  love  me  more  than  Susan,  don't  you?  She 
says  you  love  her  most,  so  I've  done  an  appalling 
thing.  I  stole  her  necklet  you  gave  her  and  hid  it  in 
my  cache.  She  shall  never,  never  see  it  again.  I 
have  lied  and  lied  and  said  I  didn't  take  it,  but  I  did, 
and  so  I  am  a  felon.  If  you  tell  I  shall  be  flayed  alive, 
but  I  don't  care,  I  had  to  tell  you. 

"Oh,  Hughie  darling,  I  want  to  go  back  to  Italy. 
I  loathe  England  and  Susan,  and  I  want  to  see  my 
father,  who  has  forgotten  all  about  me.  I  was  never 
so  devilish  with  him;  it  is  being  here  that  corrupts 
your  loving  DAFFY." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

L1AMBE  never  wrote  to  his  wife  or  to  Daffy, 
but  he  had  not  forgotten  the  child,  as  she 
thought. 

On  the  contrary,  he  missed  her,  greatly 
to  his  own  surprise,  and  would  have  sent  for  her  to 
come  out  to  him  had  he  not  feared  that  his  so  doing 
might  again  open  a  discussion  about  his  taking  to  his 
unwilling  bosom  his  whole  family. 

So  he  let  things  drift  and  made  no  sign,  and  by  the 
time  April  came  Daffy  was  convinced  that  he  would 
never  again  think  of  her  unless  he  was  violently  forced 
to  it. 

Hughie  Gunning  had  not  been  to  England ;  he  had 
gone  to  see  his  mother,  but  had  left  before  Daffy's 
letter  arrived,  and  that  tragic  epistle  found  him  in 
Constantinople. 

He  dared  not  answer  it  confidentially,  but  wrote  a 
friendly  note  to  her,  hoping  she  was  well  and  happy 
and  adding,  "I  trust,  dear  old  Daffums,  that  for  the 
sake  of  us  who  love  you  you  are  trying  to  get  the 
better  of  that  nasty  temper  of  yours." 

Daffy,  such  is  the  ingratitude  of  women,  did  not 
like  this  letter  and  mentally  stigmatized  its  writer  as 
a  prig. 

To   her  great   disgust,   her  health    continued   all 
106 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  107 

through  the  winter  to  be  very  good;  she  could  not 
muster  up  the  ghost  of  a  cough  or  a  solitary  attack 
of  the  blessed  asthma  that  the  foregoing  year  had  pro- 
cured for  her  the  joys  of  foreign  travel. 

On  her  twelfth  birthday  she  began  a  diary  with  the 
words,  "I,  Daphne  Lambe,  being  of  sound  mind,"  and 
in  that  same  first  entry  she  declared  her  disbelief  in  a 
personal  God  of  any  kind,  that  she  loved  her  mother, 
but  did  not  like  to  be  with  her,  that  she  liked  her  sister 
Sylvia  sometimes,  and  that  she  at  all  times  hated  her 
sister  Susan. 

A  horrid  document  this.  Its  entries,  though  fairly 
regular,  were  non-exciting  in  nature  until  that  of  the 
evening  of  the  nineteenth  of  October,  which  day  had 
been  celebrated  by  festivities  in  honor  of  Sylvia's  six- 
teenth birthday. 

Daffy  had  by  this  time  acquired  a  literary  fluency 
astonishing  in  one  of  her  conversational  curtness,  and 
the  description  of  the  birthday  may  speak  for  itself. 
There  is  no  excuse  for  the  spelling,  for  if  asked  to 
spell  any  word  she  could  do  so  correctly,  but  the 
diary  was  full  of  faults : 

" I  went  downstairs  early  because  Hughie 

was  coming  in  time  for  breakfast.  I  went  to  the  green- 
house and  cut  about  forty  malmaisons  and  put  them 
in  vases  in  his  room.  Mother  scolded  me,  but  it  didn't 
matter.  Mother  gave  Sylvia:  ivory  things  for  her 
dressing-table,  a  lovely  blue  frock  without  any  collar 
and  with  short  sleeves.  Susan  gave  her  a  dozen  real 
tortoise  shell  hair  pins  and  a  beautiful  lace  collar  and 
cuffs.  I  gave  her  my  red  ring  because  I  lost  my  purse 


108  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

the  other  day  and  hadn't  any  money  and  mother  said 
I  might.  Sylvia  had  on  her  new  coat  and  skirt.  It 
is  to  her  ankles.  She  had  on  white  silk  shirt  and  a 
blue  tie  with  a  little  gold  fox  head  pin  that  Uncle 
Tom  sent  her.  Her  hair  is  up,  only  it  keeps  falling 
down.  It  is  plaited  and  twisted  up  in  a  lump  on  her 
neck.  She  is  a  dream  of  beauty,  as  exquisite  as  a 
flower.  We  had  late  breakfast  and  in  the  middle  of  it 
in  came  Hughie.  He  had  a  big  box  full  of  orchids 
for  Sylvia  and  a  little  gray  leather  box  which  he  kept 
by  his  plate. 

"I  could  see  at  once  that  he  was  excited  about  it. 
He  kissed  me  and  I  was  awfully  pleased  at  -first. 

"After  breakfast  he  and  mother  went  into  the 
green  drawing-room.  I  tried  to  hear  what  they  were 
talking  about,  but  couldn't.  The  door  is  very 
thick. 

"At  last  they  came  out  and  mother  looked  very 
much  agitated — for  her. 

"Hughie  then  approached  Sylvia. 
"  *Sylvia,'  he  said  (and  his  voice  gave  a  little  squig- 
gle).  *I  have  a  little  present  for  you.'  Then  he 
opened  the  box  and  there  was  a  row  of  little  pearls, 
not  seed  ones  but  real,  proper  pearls,  grown-up  ones. 
They  are  too  adorable  for  words. 

"Sylvia  was  much  pleased,  but  she  didn't  kiss  him  or 
scream.  He  clasped  them  round  her  neck.  I  am  only 
twelve  and  small  for  my  age,  but  at  that  moment  I 
realized  that  it  was  love.  Imagine  Hughie  being  in 
love  with  Sylvia !  They  will  have  very  handsome  chil- 
dren. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  109 

"This  afternoon  the  Vicar  and  Mrs.  Dabney  called, 
and  Sylvia  being  grown  up  had  to  see  them.  So  I 
took  Hughie  for  a  walk. 

"First  he  scolded  me  for  being  savage  and  for  tell- 
ing lies.  (He  says  it  is  ungentlemanly)  and  then 
I  said  to  him,  'Hughie,  my  dear,  I  know  your 
secret.' 

"He  really  jumped  with  surprise  and  I  was  awfully 
pleased.  'I  mean  that  I  know  you  love  my  sister 
Sylvia.' 

"  'I  love  all  of  you,  when  you  are  good,'  he  an- 
swered, very  red,  but  I  only  shook  my  head. 

"  'You  don't  want  to  marry  us  all,  do  you?' 

"He  sank  down  on  a  garden  seat  just  like  Guy  in 
'Barbara's  Fate,'  and  I  took  his  hand  in  mine. 

"  'Do  not  fear  to  hurt  me,'  I  went  on  soothingly,  *I 
am  your  friend.' 

"  'You  are  a  silly  little  goose,'  he  said  rather 
crossly,  'and  you  have  been  reading  some  rubbishy 
novel.  Cut  along  and  don't  bother  me.' 

"But  I  didn't  cut  along.    Instead  I  said  gently : 

"  'Sylvia  is  too  young  to  marry  yet.' 

"There  was  a  long  pause  and  I  went  on,  'Besides, 
she  isn't  at  all  grown-up  inside.  She  never  thinks  the 
way  I  do.' 

"  'Then  perhaps  I'd  better  marry  you  instead,'  he 
retorted  with  a  laugh.  So  I  was  angry  and  walked 
away  with  my  head  held  high. 

"Aunt  Corry  and  Uncle  Fred  came  over  to  dinner 
and  after  dinner  I  was  in  the  library  reading.  Sud- 
denly I  heard  mother  say,  'You  must  promise  me, 


110  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Hugh,  to  say  nothing  for  two  years.  She  is  only  a 
child.' 

"Hughie  gave  a  sort  of  groan. 

"  'All  right,  I'll  try,  Lady  Norah,  only  I'm  bound  to 
give  myself  away.  I — I'm  an  awful  ass.  Even  little 
Daffy  saw  to-day.' 

"I  sat  quite  still  behind  the  big  sofa  by  the  fire. 
Mother  said  a  few  unimportant  things  and  then 
Hughie  promised  her  solemnly  and  she  went  out. 

"The  names  he  called  me  because  I  hadn't  got  up 
and  screamed  that  I  was  there  weren't  very  gentle- 
manly, and  I  called  him  a  pig,  but  we  became  friends 
again  and  he  said  after  all  he  wasn't  sorry  I  knew  and 
asked  me  to  write  and  tell  him  about  her.  He  is  very 
silly  about  her,  and  I  never  before  realized  how  blind 
love  really  is.  Now  I  know. 

"Susan  sang  for  Uncle  Fred  and  her  voice  is  lovely. 
She  looked  pretty,  too.  Sylvia  sat  in  a  big  chair  and 
went  to  sleep  as  usual. 

"Aunt  Corisande  said  my  frock  was  awful  and  I  was 
glad,  for  it  is.  She  called  me  Cinderella.  She  is  very 
kind,  but  her  face  is  all  plastered  with  white  stuff  that 
rolls  up  in  the  wrinkles.  It  is  not  pretty  at  all. 

"Well,  the  eventful  day  is  over. 

"Hughie  went  at  ten  and  is  not  coming  back  till 
summer,  because  mother  won't  let  him.  He  is  going 
to  Sorrento  and  is  going  to  give  my  love  to  father. 

"Sylvia  is  now  sixteen  and  has  a  lover,  though  she 
doesn't  know  it.  Susan  is  fourteen  and  wears  stays. 
I  am  twelve  and  plain,  but  I  am  the  most  intellectual. 
Tempus  fugit  and  chi  vivia  verra,  as  Italians  say." 


CHAPTER   XV 

NO  one  ever  knew  quite  how  Christopher 
Lambe  finally  settled  matters  with  his  wife. 
Quite  suddenly,  just  after  Sylvia's  sixteenth 
birthday  as  chronicled  by  Daffy,  Daffy 
again  went  to  Sorrento  and  did  not  return  until  the 
following  May. 

Lady  Norah  never  left  England  again,  but  appar- 
ently the  arrangement  satisfied  her  perfectly. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  the  arrangement  came  about  in 
a  quite  simple  give-and-take  way. 

Dunstan  Pember,  the  youngest  of  Lady  Norah's 
brothers,  a  good-looking  giver  of  suppers  to  musical 
comedy  ladies,  managed  a  short  time  after  Daffy's 
return  to  England,  after  her  visit  to  Italy,  to  involve 
himself  seriously  with  one  Miss  Olive  St.  John  of  the 
Gaiety.  This  young  lady,  a  really  very  pretty  girl 
named  Slamm,  was  wise  in  her  generation  and  a  posi- 
tive dragon  of  virtue. 

Mrs.  Slamm,  unfortunately  doing  time  for  some 
minor  offense,  was  replaced  by  a  highly  presentable 
stage-mother,  who  chaperoned  her  "daughter"  with 
the  vigilance  of  half  a  dozen  society  parents  rolled 
into  one. 

And  poor  Dunny  Pember  of  course  fell  into  the 
trap !  He  bought  diamonds  "on  tick"  which  the  young 

111 


112  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

lady  would  not  accept,  but  which  after  much  persua- 
sion she  at  last  consented  to  wear  just  to  please  him. 
He  presented  Mrs.  St.  John  (who  once  in  a  moment  of 
after-supper  expansiveness  confided  to  him  that  her 
husband  had  been  a  Major  in  the  navy)  with  a  very 
pleasing  little  motor,  in  which  The  Divinity  took  her 
ease.  They  lunched  and  supped  at  the  Savoy  and  bills 
grew  up  like  wild  dragons'  teeth. 

At  length,  bothered  to  death  by  urgent  creditors, 
unable  to  obtain  another  shilling  from  Jew  or  Chris- 
tian, haunted  by  an  awful  fear  of  losing  his  bliss  as  a 
matrimonially  bent  Viscount  had  (so  Mrs.  St.  John 
told  him)  appeared  on  the  immediate  scene,  the  boy 
asked  the  young  woman  to  become  an  Honorable  Mrs. 
Pember. 

After  a  week  of  reflection,  during  which  he  nearly 
went  mad  from  uncertainty,  she  deigned  to  accept  him, 
and  he,  trusting  to  Pemberley's  good  nature,  went  to 
his  eldest  brother  and  confessed.  Whereupon  Pember- 
ley  used  language  and  swore  that  he'd  be d  be- 
fore he'd  accept  a  d  for  a  sister-in-law. 

He  would  not  pay  a  single  penny  of  a  single  bill  in- 
curred in  the  wooing  of  the  said  and  his 

young  of  a  brother  had  better  waste  no  more 

breath  in  trying  to  persuade  him. 

"I'll  have  to  go  bust  then,  Otho,"  returned  the  boy, 
"you  won't  like  that." 

"I'll  like  anything  rather  than  have  a  low  down 
hussy  for  my  sister-in-law.  Our  family  has  hitherto 
kept  clear  of  the  music  hall  comedy  style  of  wife  and 
I  won't  have  you  marrying  this person." 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  113 

"She's  a  damn  sight  better  than  lots  of  girls  of 
one's  own  class." 

But  Pemberley  had  an  unexpected  fund  of  class- 
feeling  and  his  red  nose  glowed  with  ardor. 

"That  doesn't  matter,  my  boy.  Any  one  who  isn't  a 
born  idiot  realizes  that  there  are  good  women  every- 
where, even  half-naked  ones  in  choruses  that  can't 
sing.  And  God  knows  our  own  women  aren't  all  an- 
gels. But  they  are  our  own  women.  That's  just  the 
point.  If  you  must  marry  some  one  who  isn't  fit  to  be 
the  mother  of  your  children  get  one  of  your  own  class 
and  go  to  H like  a  gentleman." 

Dunstan  couldn't  persist  and  left  the  room  at  once. 
He  was  annoyed  by  his  brother's  attitude,  amazed  as 
well  as  indignant.  Pember  was  a  queer  old  bird. 

But  Pember  was  close-fisted  as  well  as  proud,  and 
his  resolution  not  to  help  his  brother  pay  his 
debts  lived  out  against  two  piteous  appeals  made  by 
letters. 

Then  Dunny,  as  was  his  way,  went  to  Corisande 
Peplow.  She  had  no  money  herself,  but  she  had  a  cer- 
tain useful  wisdom  and  on  this  occasion  his  trust  in  it 
was  fully  justified. 

"Ask  Kit  Lambe,"  she  said  promptly,  lighting  a 
cigarette.  "He  has  pots  and  is  a  good-natured  old 
thing." 

Lady  Corisande  never  remembered  her  own  age  and 
spoke  thus  of  Lambe  in  perfect  good  faith,  quite  for- 
getting that  she  was  twelve  years  older  than  he. 

So  Dunstan  Pember  wrote  to  Lambe,  who  was  then 
in  Paris. 


114  THE    GREEN    PATCH 

The  answer  came  by  cable : 

Will  see  you  in  London  to-morrow  Wednesday  at 
eight  at  Bagg's  in  Albemarle  Street. 

Dunny  had  not  seen  his  eccentric  brother-in-law 
for  a  long  time,  and  the  minute  he  came  into  the  room 
the  young  man  was  aware  of  a  kind  of  suppressed  ex- 
citement in  his  manner. 

"How  d'ye  do,  Dunny?"  Lambe  said,  "what's  all 
this  about  a  girl?" 

"I — I  love  her,"  returned  the  youth  sulkily. 

"I  see.  Well,  love  her.  It  won't  hurt  you.  Only 
you  mustn't  marry  her.  That  won't  do,  you  know." 

"You  are  suggesting " 

"Hold  your  tongue  and  don't  be  an  ass.  I  am  not 
suggesting  anything  except  that  you  don't  tie  your- 
self up  for  life  to  a  half-educated  product  of  the 
slums." 

They  dined,  the  two  men,  and  only  when  they  were 
comfortably  full  of  food,  did  they  return  to  the  sub- 
ject. 

"I  am  rich,  you  know,  Dunny.  In  fact,  I  am  now, 
thanks  to  a  kindly  tip  about  copper  from  a  gum- 
chewing  individual  from  Ohio,  a  very  rich  man.  Sup- 
pose I  bribe  you." 

Then  he  made  bids.  Dunny  was  in  love  with  Miss 
Slamm,  but  he  had  been  impressed  by  Lord  Pember- 
ley's  attitude  toward  the  lady,  and  for  a  long  time 
he  had  been  tormented  to  death  by  his  creditors.  Gone 
were  the  peaceful  nights  of  yore,  gone  the  careless 
days.  The  boy  was  only  twenty-two,  and,  after  all, 
constant  association  with  Miss  Slamm  had  revealed  to 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  115 

him  one  or  two  harmless  vulgarities  of  thought  and 
phrase  that  startled  him. 

"I'm  not  such  a  cur  as  to  be  bought  off,"  he  pro- 
tested. "Haymon  wants  to  marry  her — if  she's  good 
enough  for  him " 

"Haymon  ?  I  don't  believe  he  wants  to  marry  her," 
Lambe  returned.  He  knew  Haymon. 

"Well,  he  does." 

"Did  he  tell  you  so?" 

"No.    Mrs.— Mrs.  St.  John  told  me." 

"Oh,  Mrs.  St.  John.  A  relative  of  the  lady,  I  sup- 
pose. Good  name,"  he  pursued,  reflecting.  Young 
Pember  writhed.  "Her  real  name,  of  course?" 

"No,"  the  boy  burst  out.  "Her  real  name  is 
Slamm,  if  you  must  have  it,  and  I  don't  care  a  damn." 

They  talked  for  another  hour  and  then  Christopher 
Lambe  went  to  bed. 

The  next  morning,  Lady  Norah  in  answer  to  a  wire 
from  him  appeared  at  his  hotel,  and  after  a  short  con- 
versation, they  parted  with  something  almost  like  cor- 
diality. 

Results:  Young  Pember's  bills  were  paid  and  his 
passage  round  the  world,  together  with  that  of  a 
cousin,  a  youth  very  little  older  but  much  wiser  in  his 
day  and  generation  than  he.  Miss  St.  John  was  found 
to  be  easily  satisfied.  She  accepted  a  fat  cheque,  she 
kept  the  jewels  and  the  motor,  and  confessed  to  Mr. 
Lambe  that  poor  old  Dun  had  always  rather  bored  her. 

Bribery  and  corruption  on  all  sides,  a  very  discred- 
itable arrangement,  and  Christopher  Lambe  should  no 
doubt  have  been  ashamed  of  himself.  However,  he 


116  THE    GREEN    PATCH 

was  neither  ashamed  nor  compunctious,  and  Lady 
Norah  for  her  part  after  in  vain  opposing  her  will  to 
his,  and  after  having  been  startled  by  his  extraordi- 
nary attitude  into  saying  one  or  two  very  unpleasant 
things  to  him,  gave  into  his  terms  which  were  simply 
these :  That  in  return  for  his  saving  the  family  from 
an  undesirable  sister-in-law  and  from  a  bankruptcy 
case,  Daffy  was  to  be  allowed  to  spend  six  months  out 
of  every  year  with  her  father.  "I  can't  understand 
your  wanting  her,"  Lady  Norah  pleaded,  "if  you 
liked  her  why  did  you  leave  her?" 

"I  know ;  I  am  perfectly  illogical.  But  the  fact  re- 
mains that  I  do  like  her  and  as  I  have  a  perfectly  de- 
sirable home  for  her,  I  wish  to  have  her  with  me  every 
winter.  You  have  the  other  two,  and  from  what  young 
Gunning  tells  me,  they  are  both  of  'em  far  more  at- 
tractive than  the  little  one." 

"Yes,  they  are.  But  I  greatly  prefer  not  to  sepa- 
rate them." 

However,  he  had  from  the  first  made  it  clear  that  he 
was  willing  to  come  to  the  family  rescue  in  the  matter 
of  Miss  Slamm  on  purely  selfish  grounds  and  on  no 
others.  He  did  not,  he  said,  care  a  blow  about  young 
Dunstan  and  his  debts,  and  nothing  but  his  sensing  a 
possible  arrangement  about  Daffy  had  led  him  to  make 
any  move  in  the  matter. 

So  Lady  Norah  gave  in,  and  it  may  have  been  with 
a  little  sigh  of  relief  that  she  said  good-bye  to  her 
youngest  daughter  a  fortnight  later. 

Daffy  was  not  a  comfortable  inmate  of  Lambe 
House.  She  was  too  absolutely  unlike  the  Pembers 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  117 

for  Lady  Norah  ever  to  understand  her,  and  if  she  was 
to  prove  a  failure  it  would  be  some  small  comfort  to 
her  mother  that  her  bringing-up  should  not  exclusively 
have  been  her  doing. 

But  poor  Lady  Norah  at  the  same  time  loved  her 
daughter,  and  many  were  the  words  of  advice  given  to 
her  these  last  days. 

"You  will  try  to  be  so  good,  Daffy,  won't  you  ?"  she 
said  at  the  door  of  the  first-class  compartment  at  Vic- 
toria. 

"I  am  always  good  with  father,"  was  the  discon- 
certing reply. 

Then  as  the  train  started,  the  girl  leaned  out. 

"Oh,  mother,"  she  called.  "I  do  love  you,  you 
know.  And  I  will  try  to  be  good.  Good-bye !" 

Lady  Corisande,  one  of  whose  constant  little  "flings 
in  Paris"  had  occasioned  the  choosing  of  that  particu- 
lar day  for  Daffy's  departure,  watched  her  niece  curi- 
ously during  the  journey  to  Calais. 

"I  wonder  what  will  become  of  you,  Daffy,"  she 
said.  "Christopher  will  spoil  you,  of  course,  and  you 
haven't  the  looks  to  bear  spoiling.  If  it  was  Sylvia 
now,  she  would  be  allowed  any  amount  of  eccentricity, 
or  even  worse,  she  is  so  lovely." 

"I  may  improve,"  suggested  Daffy  with  a  view  of 
consoling  her  aunt  rather  than  from  any  personal 
feeling.  "Some  girls  do." 

Lady  Corisande  burst  out  laughing,  an  indulgence 
that  did  dire  things  to  her  complexion. 

"Like  the  Ugly  Duckling,  eh?  Well,  you  certainly 
ain't  dull,  my  dear,  and  that  is  something.  Still  you 


118  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

ought  to  go  in  for  something,  if  it's  only  golf.  Do 
you  like  sports  ?" 

Daffy  made  a  face.  "No,  I  loathe  'em.  I  don't 
mind  tennis,  but  I  don't  really  love  it  like  the  Vicarage 
girls.  Swimming  is  the  best  of  all." 

Lady  Corisande  brightened.  "Well,  you  can  join 
the  Bath  Club  and  swim  there,  your  figure  won't  be 
bad,  though  your  legs  are  too  long." 

Daffy's  personal  appearance  and  lack  of  accom- 
plishments gave  Daffy  herself  no  uneasiness  at  all. 
She  was  going  to  her  father  and  was  to  be  away  from 
Lambe  House  and  Susan  for  six  blessed  months  in 
every  year.  That  was  enough  to  make  her  perfectly 
happy. 

She  was  going  back  to  the  dear  villa,  she  could  sit 
in  the  Poggio  and  swim  in  the  blue  sea  and  there  was 
Angiolino  Screach  for  her  to  play  with. 

At  Calais,  Christopher  Lambe  awaited  his  daughter. 

"Hello,  Tiny  Tim,"  he  said,  "had  a  good  crossing?" 

She  kissed  him  shyly.  After  a  hasty,  but  extremely 
good  meal  in  the  restaurant,  the  trio  made  its  way  on 
to  Paris. 

Here  they  separated,  Lady  Corisande  going  to  the 
house  of  a  friend,  Lambe  and  Daffy  to  the  gorgeous 
hotel  that  they  loved. 

The  next  day  they  went  on  to  Italy  and  three  days 
later  arrived  just  at  dinner-time  at  the  villa. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

ON  the  seventeenth  of  May,  two  years  and  a 
half  after  the  making  of  the  arrangement 
by  which  Daphne  Lambe  henceforth  was  to 
live  every  winter  with  her  father,  a  small 
young  girl  dressed  in  smartly  cut,  French-looking 
clothes,  got  out  of  the  train  at  Victoria  and  made  her 
way  through  the  crowd  with  the  air  of  one  thoroughly 
used  to  traveling  and  its  happenings. 

There  was  no  one  to  meet  her  and  she  had  no  maid. 
Alone  she  engineered  her  box  through  the  perfunctory 
customs  examination  and  then  hailed  a  four-wheeler 
and  told  the  man  to  take  her  to  Grosvenor  Place.  This 
young  girl  was  Daffy  Lambe. 

She  had  failed  in  her  own  prognostication  regarding 
her  looks.  Her  small  brown  face  was  without  any  par- 
ticular beauty,  but  for  an  almost  classically  cut  nose ; 
her  dark  eyes  were  not  very  large,  nor  were  their  thick 
lashes  particularly  long.  Her  black  hair  which  was 
dry  and  rather  bushy  was  plaited  compactly  to  the 
back  of  her  head,  but  sprang  out  on  either  side  of  her 
face  quite  independently  of  artificial  support.  Her 
mouth,  which  was  fairly  red,  was  too  long  and  not  full 
enough  for  beauty  and  the  upper  lip  was  too  short, 
whereas  her  chin  was  a  little  too  long,  and  rather 
pointed.  The  plain  Miss  Lambe,  even  then  at  fifteen. 

119 


120  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

The  plain  Miss  Lambe  watched  London  from  the 
window  of  her  cab  with  something  like  disgust.  It  was 
a  wet  day  and  the  muddy  streets  and  umbrella'd  pe- 
destrians were  not  attractive  to  her.  She,  like  her 
father,  had  no  patriotism  at  all,  and  while  her 
thoughts  were  that  day  necessarily  at  Lambe  House, 
her  heart  was  in  Italy  in  the  sunshine. 

When  the  butler  opened  Lord  Pemberley's  door  to 
her,  the  look  on  his  face  stopped  her  coming  question. 

"Oh,"  she  faltered,  "am  I  too  late?" 

"Yes,  Miss.  The  wire  came  an  hour  ago.  'is  Lord- 
ship would  have  gone  to  the  station,  but  was  afraid  of 
missing  you  in  the  crowd." 

"I  see.    Where  is  His  Lordship  now  ?" 

Lord  Pemberley,  as  she  spoke,  came  out  of  a  room 
opposite  the  door.  He  looked  subdued  and  rather 
nervous. 

"Oh,  you  have  come,  my  dear.  Come  in  and  I  will 
tell  you.  Bring  tea,  Lubbock." 

Daffy  followed  her  uncle,  and  as  he  shut  the  door 
she  said  quietly: 

"I — I  know,  Uncle  Otho.  Lubbock  told  me.  Can't 
I  go  down  at  once?" 

Pemberley  looked  at  her.  "We  are  starting  in  an 
hour,"  he  answered.  "I  am  afraid  you  will  be  very 
tired." 

She  sat  down.    "No,  I  am  not  tired.    Poor  mother." 

It  was  a  way  of  taking  the  news  of  her 
mother's  death  that  shocked  her  uncle.  Was  she 
heartless  ? 

"It  was  very  sudden  at  the  last,  heart  failure,  the 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  121 

wire  says.  Where  is  your  father?  I  must  telegraph 
him." 

"He's  in  Paris.  He  brought  me  that  far.  I — I 
hope  she  didn't  suffer  much,  Uncle  Otho?" 

"No,  not  much,  so  far  as  I  know.  Daffy,  you — you 
amaze  me.  Don't  you  care  at  all?" 

The  girl  looked  at  him,  her  dark  eyes  steady. 

"Of  course  I  do.  But  what's  the  use  of  crying?  I 
never  cry.  Father  says " 

"Oh,  bother  your  father !    I  mean  to  say " 

The  arrival  of  tea  saved  the  situation  and  Daffy 
partook  of  hers  with  a  good  appetite. 

When  the  wire  came,  three  days  before,  saying  that 
Lady  Norah  was  ill,  the  girl  had  at  once  felt  sure  that 
her  mother  would  die.  All  through  the  journey  she 
had  told  herself  that  she  would  arrive  too  late,  and 
now  that  she  had  indeed  done  so,  she  was  fully  pre- 
pared. In  very  truth  she  had  never  greatly  loved  her 
mother,  who  was  in  her  mind  too  closely  linked  with  the 
obnoxious  Susan  to  be  very  dear  to  her,  and  in  the  last 
few  years  she  had  grown  to  adore  her  father  with  a 
strength  of  love  that  seemed  to  leave  no  room  in  her 
heart  for  other  affections. 

The  summers  at  Lambe  House  were  to  her  ever  pe- 
riods of  probation,  of  waiting  the  hour  when  she  could 
go  back  to  her  father  in  Italy.  To  Lady  Norah's  re- 
lief, the  child's  temper  was  better  than  it  had  been, 
but  her  continued  silence  was  oppressive  and  the  mute 
disregard  presented  by  her  to  Susan's  teasing  only 
barely  less  unpleasant  than  her  former  rages. 

The  mother  found  herself  watching  a  nature  that 


122  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

was  utterly  closed  to  her  observation.  She  knew  no 
more  of  Daffy  than  she  knew  of  the  Dowager  Empress 
of  China. 

"I  can't  understand  her  in  the  least,"  the  poor  lady 
told  her  friend  the  Vicar,  "she  is  like  a  complete 
stranger." 

As  for  Daffy,  used  to  the  peculiar  atmosphere  of 
freedom  of  the  villa,  Lambe  House  was  like  a  prison. 

It  was  a  crime  here  to  be  five  minutes  late  for  a 
meal,  it  was  a  crime  to  go  out  without  a  hat,  one  was 
bothered  about  one's  complexion,  questions  were  asked 
about  the  books  one  read,  one  was  obliged  to  go  to 
church. 

Even  the  clothes,  which  now,  thanks  to  a  timely  hint 
from  Lady  Corisande,  were  made  by  an  artist  in  ex- 
pensive simplicity  in  Paris,  were  made  the  subject  of 
not  always  benevolent  criticism. 

In  a  word,  Daffy  hated  Lambe  House.  Her  father 
had  spoiled  her,  had  developed  the  lawlessness  she  had 
inherited  from  him,  had  encouraged  her  impatience  of 
contest,  her  disregard  of  detail,  until  she  was  literally 
unfit  for  any  kind  of  discipline.  At  Lambe  House  she 
was  accounted  as  detestable,  her  sisters  frankly  dislik- 
ing her. 

For  her  part,  she  felt  a  certain  tenderness  for 
Sylvia,  and  a  very  great  admiration.  Sylvia's  beauty 
was  to  her  as  potent  as  it  had  already  grown  to  be  to 
men.  Sylvia  had  never  been  unkind  to  her  and  even 
now  made  an  occasional  feeble  effort  to  make  Lambe 
House  pleasant  for  her  sister. 

Susan  on  the  other  hand  derived  the  greatest  pleas- 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  123 

ure  from  tormenting  her  younger  sister,  and  but  for 
Daffy's  new  policy  of  silence,  war  would  have  raged 
all  through  the  summers. 

"How  is  Sylvia?"  Daffy  asked  as  the  train  drew  up 
at  their  station  that  evening. 

Pemberley  did  not  know.  "All  right,  I  suppose. 
She's  uncommon  good-looking,  I'm  told.  Haven't  seen 
her  for  a  long  time.  Hello,  who's  this?" 

A  tall  man  in  a  raincoat  was  approaching  them, 
evidently  with  recognition.  To  her  uncle's  horror, 
Daffy  precipitated  herself  into  the  newcomer's  arms. 

"Oh,  Hughie,"  she  said,  "I'm  so  glad  you've  come ! 
Where  have  you  been  all  this  time?" 

Gunning  gave  her  an  unemotional  kiss,  and  intro- 
duced himself  to  Pemberley. 

"I  hope  you  won't  mind  my  coming  down  at  once," 
he  explained.  "As  a  matter  of  fact  poor  Lady  Norah 
wired  to  ask  me  to,  as  soon  as  she  found  she  was  not 
going  to  pull  through." 

Pemberley  resented  any  one's  presence  who  was 
neither  a  Pember  nor  a  Lambe,  and  his  manner  plainly 
showed  it. 

"Don't  be  cross,  Uncle  Otho,"  said  Daffy  in  a  per- 
fectly audible  voice,  "it's  quite  all  right.  He's  going 
to  marry  Sylvia,  aren't  you,  Hughie?" 

Gunning  was  thirty  years  old,  but  at  this  downright 
remark,  he  blushed  like  a  boy,  and  Pemberley  paused, 
his  boot  on  the  carriage  step,  and  looked  up  at  him. 

"Oh,  I  see.  Well,  you'd  better  come  with  us.  I  see 
there's  only  one  carriage  sent." 

They  drove  away  in  silence,  which  was  broken  after 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 

a  pause  by  Daffy's  asking  suddenly,  "Hughie,  why 
did  you  stay  in  Ceylon  so  long?  We  have  missed  you 
awfully." 

"Hush,  Daffy,"  he  muttered,  "I'll  tell  you  after  a 
while." 

"My  niece  is  absolutely  without  all  sense  of  pro- 
priety," Pemberly  observed  crossly,  and  silence  again 
fell  on  the  trio. 

Gunning,  who  was  taken  up  with  his  own  thoughts, 
hardly  noticed  it  when  Daffy  slipped  her  hand  into  his, 
but  her  uncle  saw  it  and  counted  what  happened  to  be 
a  perfectly  innocent  and  childlike  action  against 
her. 

Arrived  at  the  house,  the  wet  gravel  before  which 
was  slashed  by  many  carriage  wheels,  the  older  man 
stalked  by  the  butler  without  a  word  and  silently  shook 
hands  with  his  brother,  the  Bishop,  who  looked  a  per- 
fect monument  of  decorous  grief. 

"Ah,  my  poor  Daphne !" 

"How  d'you  do,  Uncle  Tom.  Where's  Sylvia?  Oh, 
here's  Hughie,  mother  sent  for  him." 

Gunning,  feeling  very  much  in  the  way,  but  bound 
in  view  of  the  dead  lady's  appeal  to  stay,  went  quietly 
into  the  deserted  drawing  room.  After  a  few  minutes 
Daffy  came  in. 

"I  say,  Hughie,"  she  began,  as  nervous  now  as  she 
had  previously  been  calm,  "they  say  I  must  see  her. 
And  I  don't  want  to." 

"Don't  want  to  see  your  mother?  Good  heavens, 
Daffy,  you  aren't  afraid,  are  you?" 

She  stood  by  the  fire,  very  small  and  slim  in  her 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  125 

close-fitting  coat  and  skirt,  her  eyes  hidden  by  the 
shadow  of  her  quaint  little  hat. 

"Yes,  I  am,  I — I'm  awfully  afraid  of  dead  people." 

"But  your  own  mother 

"Hughie,  please  tell  them  I  needn't.  I  tell  you  I 
don't  want  to.  And  what  good  could  it  do?" 

He  was  as  honestly  puzzled  as  most  normal  young 
men  would  have  been  by  this  attitude. 

"Don't  be  a  silly.  She  loved  you,  your  mother,  and 
3rou  loved  her.  Suppose — suppose  she  can  see  you 
now.  She'd  be  awfully  hurt." 

Daffy  unpinned  her  hat  and  threw  it  on  the  floor. 

"If  mother  knows  what  I'm  thinking,  she  wouldn't 
mind  one  bit.  I — I  want  to  remember  her  alive, 
Hughie,  not  all  dead,"  she  shuddered. 

"Look  here,  Daffy,"  he  said  gently,  laying  one 
hand  on  her  shoulder,  "you  mustn't  allow  yourself  to 
get  queer.  There  are  times  when  one  simply  must  be 
like  other  people  and  this  is  one  of  them." 

She  looked  up,  very  far  up,  into  his  blue  eyes. 

"Hughie,  you  remember  how  afraid  I  was  of  things 
when  I  was  littler?"  she  asked. 

"Yes.  You  were  a  poor  little  coward,  Daffy,  only 
you  didn't  tell  then." 

"Well,  I'm  just  as  afraid  now;  I  can't  help  it.  A 
big  dog,  even  if  he  doesn't  see  me,  makes  me  go  cold 
all  over,  perhaps  because  I'm  so  small.  And  fast 
horses,  oh,  dear,  I  tremble  when  they  go  tearing  along. 
And,  Hughie — don't  laugh — I  always  have  a  light  in 
my  room  at  home.  If  I  don't,  the — the  shadows 
frighten  me.  There !" 


126  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Her  pointed  white  face  was  whiter  than  usual  un- 
der the  stress  of  confession,  and  he  saw  that  she  was 
telling  the  absolute  truth. 

"Poor  Daffy-down-Dilly,"  he  said  gently. 

"Well,  but  most  of  all  I'm  afraid  of  dead  people. 
Oh,  Hughie,  dear,  great,  big,  brave  Hughie,  do  tell 
'em  I  needn't!" 

It  is  possible  that  he  might  have  made  an  effort  to 
save  her  from  the  ordeal  she  so  dreaded,  but  at  that 
moment  the  door  opened  and  Sylvia  came  in,  and  he 
at  once  forgot  everybody  and  everything  else  in  the 
world. 

It  is  hard  to  describe  great  beauty,  and  all  that  one 
can  say  of  Sylvia  Lambe  sounds  conventional  and 
doll-like,  yet  she  was  neither  in  looks.  She  was  very 
tall,  nearly  as  tall  as  Gunning  himself,  and  during  the 
.last  two  years  she  had  grown  to  be  almost  too  slim. 
Now,  in  her  loose  white  dressing-gown,  her  wonderful 
hair  tied  back  by  a  bit  of  black  ribbon,  her  eyes  heavy, 
but  not  red,  with  weeping,  she  was  indeed  lovely 
enough  to  cause  any  man  to  forget  dozens  of  Daffies. 

"Oh,  Hughie,"  she  said,  holding  out  both  her 
hands,  "I'm  so  glad  you  have  come." 

"Sylvia,  my  dear,"  he  stammered,  taking  her  gently 
into  his  arms. 

Daffy  watched  them,  feeling  suddenly  as  if  a  door 
had  been  closed  in  her  face. 

"Hughie,  come  and  see  her.  She  is  so  lovely."  Then 
Sylvia  saw  her  sister  and  went  to  her  just  as  she 
had  gone  to  Gunning,  both  hands  extended.  "Daffy 
dear,  oh,  my  dear  little  sister,"  she  cried  brokenly. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  127 

Then  she  broke  down  and  cried  with  her  arras  round 
the  younger  girl.  After  a  long  moment  she  withdrew, 
and  turning  to  Gunning  said,  her  face  dimpling  into  a 
faint  smile,  "Lend  me  your  handkerchief,  Hughie.  I 
forgot  to  bring  one,  and  now  come,  Daffy  will  want  to 
see  her." 

Daffy  shot  a  look  of  agony  at  Gunning,  but  he  did 
not  even  see  it,  and  unable  to  resist  any  longer,  Daffy 
allowed  herself  to  be  led  to  the  death  chamber. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE  house  was  full  for  the  next  few  days. 
The  Pembers  were  of  those  who  always 
gather  in  full  force  at  family  functions  of 
any  kind,  and  their  strongest  feelings  were 
involved  in  the  matter  of  funerals. 

None  was  ever  too  busy  or  too  ill,  unless  at  death's 
very  door,  to  hasten  from  all  parts  of  the  kingdom 
when  one  of  their  numerous  clan  took  unto  him  or  her- 
self a  life  partner  or  left  this  world. 

Even  Lady  Corisande,  the  frivolous  one,  had  only 
missed  one  funeral  and  two  weddings  since  she  was  of 
an  age  to  go  to  them,  and  Lord  Pemberley  was  sup- 
posed to  have  been  seriously  annoyed  with  her  because 
at  the  time  of  the  second  of  the  weddings  she  had  been 
no  farther  away  than  Berlin. 

So  Lambe  House  was  now  packed  almost  to  dis- 
comfort with  solemn-eyed  Pembers,  leavened  only  by 
two  outside  Lambes,  Christopher's  old  uncle,  who  was 
well  over  eighty  and  not  quite  right  in  his  mind,  and  a 
Mrs.  Larbord,  Christopher's  cousin.  These  two  were 
his  nearest  relations. 

The  Bishop's  wife  arrived  the  day  after  Daffy, 
Lady  Rayburnham,  Lady  Corisande  and  her  small  dry 
husband,  Fred  Peplow,  came  in  the  same  train,  then 
there  was  poor  Lady  Pember  who  always  felt  herself  in 

128 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  129 

disgrace  because  of  her  unsuccessful  efforts  to  pro- 
duce an  heir,  Bill  and  his  wife  (both  big  and  burly 
and  louder- voiced  than  the  others),  Charles  who  had 
never  married,  and  whose  open  preferences  for  Paris, 
where  he  had  a  flat,  was  considered  by  the  family  to 
be  peculiar  almost  to  the  verge  of  infirmity.  Charles 
was  Susan's  godfather,  and  sent  her  twenty  pounds 
every  birthday. 

Lady  Mary  Grainger-Clay,  the  youngest  sister,  was 
there,  but  without  her  husband,  as  he  had  died  a  year 
before.  Her  eyes  were  still  wet  for  him. 

Young  Dunstan,  just  back  from  his  travels,  com- 
pleted the  list  of  brothers  and  sisters,  but  not  of 
guests,  for  there  were  cousins  as  well,  and  even  one 
uncle'  and  an  uncle-in-law  as  well. 

After  the  excitement  and  tragedy  of  poor  dear 
Norah's  death,  the  favorite  subject  of  conversation 
was  of  course  Christopher's  behavior. 

He  arrived  as  soon  as  he  could  get  there  after  re- 
ceiving Pemberley's  wire,  and  his  demeanor  was  that 
of  any  other  well-behaved  guest  in  a  house  of  mourn- 
ing. The  Bishop  played  host,  and  did  it  very  well,  by 
general  consent. 

When  Christopher  had  been  discussed  to  satiety,  the 
mourners  fell  back  on  the  great  beauty  of  the  two 
elder  girls. 

"I  never  saw  a  lovelier  girl  than  Sylvia,"  each  and 
every  one  declared,  "I  suppose  Corisande  will  bring 
her  out." 

It  rained  steadily  for  three  days,  so  there  was  little 
or  no  fresh  air  to  be  had  and  tempers  grew  restive. 


130  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Fred  Peplow,  the  best  little  man  in  the  world,  got  on 
everybody's  nerves,  and  Lady  Mary  and  Dunny  had  a 
really  acrimonious  quarrel,  regarding  the  effect  of 
high  heels  on  the  health.  Dunny,  being  now  engaged 
to  an  Australian  heiress,  had  grown  vastly  in  self-im- 
portance, and  considered  that  his  opinion  should  be 
more  valued  than  it  was  by  the  family. 

The  evening  before  the  funeral  Daffy  sat  alone  by 
an  open  window  in  the  old  schoolroom.  The  rain  had 
ceased  and  from  the  soaked  earth  came  pleasant  and 
hopeful  spring  smells.  The  trees  were  just  breaking 
into  a  foam  of  delicate  green,  hardly  yet  to  be  called 
leaves,  for  the  winter  had  been  a  long  one,  and  the 
tulips  in  the  large  formal  parterres  were  hardly  out 
of  their  prison  although  the  middle  of  May  was  past. 

Daffy  was  very  pale  in  her  black  frock  and  her  small 
face  had  a  worn,  drawn  look. 

What  she  had  told  Hugh  Gunning  about  her  own 
cowardice  was  perfectly  true.  It  was  a  constitutional 
thing  and  while  her  self-control  was  great  enough  to 
hide  it  as  a  rule,  no  amount  of  effort  could  steady  the 
inward  quivering  that  came  to  her  when  she  was 
frightened.  The  house  of  death  had  got  on  to  her 
nerves  to  an  extent  almost  unbearable ;  she  was  nearly 
ill  and  recollections  of  the  ghoulish  conversation  of  old 
uncle  Gerald,  to  whose  particular  entertainment  the 
Bishop  had  told  her  off,  kept  her  awake  at  night. 

Uncle  Gerald  could  remember  the  funeral  of  every 
Lambe  of  the  last  twenty-five  years,  and  his  memory 
for  gruesome  detail  was  terrific. 

"I  like  you,  Sarah,"  he  said  to  Daffy,  over  and  over 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  131 

again,  "because  you  are  all  Lambe,  and  because  you 
like  to  listen  when  I  talk." 

Why  he  called  her  Sarah  no  one  knew,  but  it  was 
useless  reminding  him  that  that  was  not  her  name. 

Now,  after  a  full  hour  of  memories  connected  with 
the  death  from  cancer  of  his  eldest  daughter  in  '69, 
Daffy,  quite  ill  with  horror,  had  run  away  here  to  the 
schoolroom  for  a  rest. 

No  one  ever  came  here.  It  was  a  shabby  and  unat- 
tractive room,  looking  out  over  the  least  beautiful  part 
of  the  grounds,  but  at  least  it  was  quiet  and  Uncle 
Gerald  did  not  know  of  its  existence. 

The  young  girl  sat  on  the  floor  by  the  window,  her 
elbows  on  the  sill,  her  head  leaning  against  the  window 
frame.  It  was  nearly  seven  o'clock  and  soon  she  must 
go  and  dress. 

She  was  very  tired;  it  had  been  a  dreadful  day. 
They  talked  so  much,  all  the  relations,  all  except 
Uncle  Fred,  and  he  stayed  upstairs  most  of  the  time. 
Daffy's  father,  whom  she  so  loved,  was  very  busy. 
The  Bishop  had  much  to  say  to  him  and  the  greater 
part  of  each  day  he  was  not  to  be  found  except  at 
meal  times.  Sylvia  and  Susan,  both  of  whom  were 
heart-broken  over  their  mother's  death,  were  allowed 
by  the  relations  to  stay  upstairs  without  comment,  but 
Daffy,  who  was  clearly  not  nearly  so  distressed  as  she 
should  have  been,  was  expected  to  be  useful,  and  no 
one  knew  better  than  herself  how  really  useless  she 
was. 

The  Vicar  had  to  be  seen,  and  introduced  to  such 
of  the  tribe  as  did  not  know  him,  and  this  duty  fell  on 


132  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Daffy,  who  strongly  disliked  the  smug  occupation. 
Certain  tenants,  too,  called,  and  it  was  felt  that  they 
deserved  a  polite  word  from  one  of  the  afflicted,  which 
one  was  always  Daffy,  who  invariably  said  the  wrong 
thing,  or,  still  more,  called  them  by  the  wrong  name. 

She  was  so  tired !  The  stable  clock  struck  the  three- 
quarters.  Fifteen  minutes  more  she  could  sit  there  in 
the  restful  quiet  and  then  she  must  go. 

Suddenly  the  light  of  a  cigar  caught  her  eye  in  the 
shrubbery.  It  was  high  up  from  the  ground  and  so 
could  not  be  in  the  mouth  of  little  Uncle  Fred.  Who 
else  would  be  smoking  so  brazenly? 

Then  suddenly  the  sinner  emerged  into  the  open 
space  near  the  house,  and  Daffy,  leaning  out  of  the 
window,  called  him. 

"Hughie !  I  say,  Hughie !" 

Gunning  looked  up,  his  cigar  in  his  hand. 

"Is  that  you?" 

Daffy  knew  by  a  something  in  his  voice  that  she  was 
not  the  "you"  he  meant. 

"No,"  she  said  regretfully,  "it's  only  me,  Daffy. 
But  do  come  up  here,  Hughie.  You  may  smoke  here." 

"All  right.    Where  are  you?" 

"In  the  schoolroom,  you  know,  you  go  past  the 
yellow  room  and  up  the  little  stairs " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know." 

He  disappeared,  and  a  few  minutes  later  came  into 
the  room. 

"This  is  a  good  idea,"  he  commented,  drawing  a 
chair  to  the  window  and  sitting  down.  "I  got  so  fed 
up  with  the  family,  I  couldn't  stand  it ;  the  old  man  is 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  133 

looking  for  you,  and  the  Bishop  wanted  you  a  while 
ago." 

"Let  'em  look.  Oh,  Hughie,  what  a  horribly  bar- 
barous thing  a  funeral  party  is !" 

"Beastly.  And  yet,  what  else  could  one  do  ?  I  say, 
Daffy,  how  is  Sylvia  ?  I  haven't  seen  her  all  day." 

"She's  been  asleep  since  four.     She's  all  right." 

"Asleep !"  The  rapture  on  his  good-looking,  rather 
severe  face  gave  it,  to  Daffy's  critical  eyes,  a  look  al- 
most idiotic. 

"Yes,  wonderful  of  her  to  go  to  sleep,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Don't  be  nasty.  You're  a  good  little  thing,  Daff, 
but  sometimes  you  seem  just  a  little " 

"Spiteful.  That's  my  envious  disposition."  She 
finished  calmly,  "Don't  be  an  ass,  Hughie." 

"Well,  you  don't  appreciate  the  girls ;  that  much  is 
true." 

Daffy  stared  at  him. 

"Oh,  you — you — really  Hughie !  Even  you  bracket 
'em  together.  Why  can't  you  see  that  Sylvia  really 
is  good  and  kind  in  her  rather  stupid  way,  and  that 
Susan  is  a — a  cat  ?" 

"Sylvia  stupid !"  returned  the  man  impatiently,  "I 
am  ashamed  of  you,  Daphne." 

"You  needn't  be,  and  you  needn't  call  me  Daphne. 
I  like  Sylvia,  yes,  I  do,  and  if  Susan  wasn't  always 
there,  I'd  love  her.  But,  well,  she  isn't  clever.  Her 
brain  is  half  asleep,  I  think.  But  she's  all  right  and 
Susan  is  all  wrong.  You  wait  and  see.  That's  what 
I  wanted  to  say  to  you.  Marry  her  quick,  Hughie, 
and  get  her  away  from  Susan." 


134  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

She  spoke,  he  now  saw,  without  spitefulness  and 
with  the  reasonable  dislike  of  a  grown  person.  After 
a  pause  he  said  slowly: 

"How  am  I  to  marry  her  quick,  Daffy  ?  I've  never 
said  a  word  to  her  about  it.  I  promised  your  poor 
mother  I  wouldn't.  And  now,  it  wouldn't  be  decent 
for  a  while,  anyhow.  Besides,  suppose  she  says 
no!" 

Daffy  rose  to  her  knees  and  looked  at  him  very 
earnestly. 

"Look  here,  Hughie,"  she  said,  in  a  way  that  im- 
pressed him  in  spite  of  her  youth,  "listen  to  me. 
Sylvia  is  getting  old.  She  will  be  nineteen  in  Novem- 
ber and  she  would  have  come  out  this  season  if  mother 
hadn't  been  seedy,  I  mean  to  say,  ill.  Well,  she  is  a 
great  beauty.  Dunny  told  me  that  there  isn't  a  woman 
in  London  as  good-looking  as  she  is.  And  Aunt  Corry 
and  Aunt  Mary  and  even  Aunt  Maud  want  to  take 
her  to  live  with  them — with  her — you  know  what  I 
mean,  and  then  she'll  meet  all  the  men  in  England 
and  they'll  all  want  to  marry  her,  and  then  where'll 
you  be?" 

"I  know,  Daffy,"  he  answered  humbly,  his  smooth 
brown  head  in  his  hands. 

"You  see,"  went  on  his  mentor,  "it  isn't  as  if  she 
was  in  love  with  you.  She  isn't.  And  I'd  marry  you 
like  a  shot  myself  if  you  wanted  me  to,  Hughie,  and  I 
love  you  dearly,  but,  well  after  all,  you  aren't  much 
of  a  catch  for  a  great  beauty,  are  you  ?" 

"Course  I'm  not." 

"When  they  used  to  play  with  dolls,  Susan's  al- 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  135 

ways  used  to  marry  great  musicians,  but  Sylvia's 
never  married  anything  under  a  Duke.  So  you  see !" 

Gunning  forgot  that  he  was  thirty  and  his  adviser 
fifteen. 

"Well,  what  do  you  think  I'd  better  do?"  he  asked, 
looking  at  her,  his  blue  eyes  suddenly  haggard.  Her 
answer  was  ready. 

"Ask  her  at  once.  Father  will  be  glad  and  she  is 
almost  bound  to  say  yes,  because  she's  never  seen  any 
other  men.  Besides,  she's  not  a  bit  conceited,  Sylvia, 
I  don't  believe  she  has  an  idea  what  her  looks  are 
worth.  Now  Susan " 

"Never  mind  Susan.  Look  here,  Daffy,  your 
mother  wired  to  me  a  week  ago,  asking  me  to  come. 
And  she  also  said — look,"  he  took  the  bit  of  paper 
from  his  pocket  and  handed  it  to  her,  "  *I  am  dying. 
Please  come.  You  have  my  full  permission  regarding 
what  you  asked  me  two  years  ago.  Norah  Lambe.' ' 

Daffy  read  it  twice  and  gave  it  back  to  him. 

"My  dear  Hughie,  you  are  as  good  as  engaged, 
now,  with  that  to  show  her.  Sylvia  adored  mother, 
and  she'd  marry  Phipps  if  mother  had  sent  him  such 
a  wire." 

Phipps  being  the  head  gardener,  one  of  the  ugliest 
men  extant,  Gunning  burst  out  laughing. 

"Yours  is  certainly  a  sootherin'  tongue,  oh,  young- 
est Miss  Lambe,"  he  chuckled,  "am  I  as  awful  as 
Phipps?" 

Daffy  paid  no  heed  to  his  question. 

"We  must  go  and  dress  now.  I  say,  Hughie,  to- 
morrow after  the  funeral,  I'll  get  her  in  here  and  then 


136  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

you  come.  I  may  have  to  chloroform  Susan,  but  I'll 
manage  somehow." 

"Good  little  Daffy!"  Suddenly  he  saw  her  once 
more  as  the  child  she  really  was  and  he  reddened. 
"Funny,  you  helping  me  with  my — my  wooing,"  he 
said,  rising.  "I  am  not  shy  as  a  rule,  but  with  her — 
ah,  Daffy  dear,  some  day  you'll  care  for  some  man  as 
I  do  for  her,  and  then  you'll  understand." 

She  laughed.    "Poor  old  Hughie !"  she  answered. 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

MOST  of  the  guests  left  the  afternoon  of  the 
funeral.  Uncle  Gerald  stayed,  being  sup- 
posedly too  tired,  at  his  age,  to  leave  after 
the  excitement  of  burying  a  niece,  and 
Uncle  Fred  and  Aunt  Corisande  Peplow  and  Dunstan 
Pember.  The  others  departed  in  small  groups  of  twos 
and  threes,  their  minds,  it  is  to  be  hoped,  calm  with  the 
consciousness  of  duty  done.  Another  Pember  gone 
and  the  family  had,  as  ever,  risen  to  the  occasion  and 
graced  it.  Now  they  could  go  home  in  peace. 

On  two  points  were  they  unconsciously  agreed :  the 
perfect  correctness  of  Sylvia  and  Susan,  the  strange- 
ness of  Daphne. 

"She  did  not  cry  at  all,"  commented  the  Bishop's 
lady,  in  the  carriage  on  the  way  to  the  station. 

"And  she  looked  frightened  out  of  her  wits  the 
whole  time.  Evidently  no  Christian  belief,"  added 
Lady  Mary.  "Now  Sylvia  and  Susan — perfect!" 

Meantime  the  three  girls,  left  at  last  to  themselves, 
dined  quietly  with  the  Peplows,  Dunny  Pember  and 
Hugh  Gunning.  Uncle  Gerald  had  gone  to  bed. 

Sylvia,  in  black,  was,  like  most  fresh,  fair  women,  at 
her  best,  and  Susan  to  some  people  was  very  nearly  as 
lovely.  She  was  not  so  tall,  but  equally  slim  as  her 
sister,  her  slightly  darker  hair  grew  in  perfect  even 

137 


138  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

waves  that  would  have  made  the  late  Mr.  Marcel  die  of 
envy.  Her  mouth  was  more  classically  perfect  than 
Sylvia's,  and  her  eyes  only  less  good. 

Analysis  failed  to  show  why  Sylvia  was  indisputably 
the  more  beautiful,  but  so  it  was,  and  it  was,  even  in 
the  jaundiced  Daffy's  eyes,  greatly  to  Susan's  credit 
that  she  was  quite  free  of  all  taint  of  jealousy  of  her 
sister.  The  two  girls  were  devoted  to  each  other  and 
even  the  Vicar  had  been  moved  to  comparing  them  to 
twin  rosebuds  on  one  stem. 

Lady  Corisande,  who  had,  in  the  relief  of  the  re- 
turn from  the  funeral,  made  up  her  complexion  in  a 
positive  riot  of  color,  watched  the  two  lovely  young 
faces  in  the  silence  of  the  early  part  of  the  meal  and 
then  suddenly  burst  out. 

"Of  course,  Christopher,  I  shall  bring  'em  out  next 
spring !" 

Lambe  looked  up  from  his  fish.  "The  girls?  I 
don't  know;  Lady  Pember  has  offered  to  see  Sylvia 
through  it." 

"Nonsense,  Maud's  girls  are  out  and  their  dullness 
couldn't  help  affecting  Sylvia.  Besides,  Maud's  rela- 
tives are  the  dullest  fogies  on  earth.  I  am  obviously 
the  one  to  do  it.  Give  'em  to  me  and  I'll  guarantee 
them  a  success  such  as  hasn't  been  made  for  years !" 

"We  shall  see,"  returned  their  father.  "But  why 
should  they  be  such  a  success?  They  aren't  clever. 
That  is,  Sylvia  isn't." 

Sylvia  smiled  faintly.  "No,  father,  I  am  not  a  bit 
clever.  But  Susan  is.  You  haven't  heard  her  play 
yet." 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  139 

"I'll  bet  on  Susan,"  remarked  Dunstan,  "if  I 
weren't  her  uncle  I'd  marry  her  myself." 

He  was  an  unbaked-looking  young  man  with  a  mad- 
deningly supercilious  smile.  He  was  dull,  incapable 
and  unbeautiful,  but  his  conceit  was  like  the  sea,  be- 
cause it  was  infinite. 

Susan  looked  at  him  with  a  smile  approaching  a 
sneer. 

"Would  you?"  she  asked.  "Don't  turn  my  head, 
Dunny." 

Fred  Peplow  fidgeted.    Rows  upset  him. 

"Are  you  going  back  to  Italy,  Kit?"  he  asked,  to 
avert  the  one  that  threatened. 

"Of  course.  I  am  going,"  continued  Lambe  with  no 
expression  whatsoever  on  his  face,  "to  take  all  three 
girls  back  with  me  until  July.  Then  we  are  going  to 
Switzerland." 

A  bomb-shell  could  hardly  have  created  more  sur- 
prise, though  it  would  have  been  more  devastating. 

The  Peplows  gasped,  Dunny  Pember  upset  his  wine 
and  Sylvia  and  Susan  clasped  hands  under  the  table. 

"Well,"  asked  Lambe  impatiently,  "why  shouldn't 
I  take  my  own  daughters  to  my  own  house  ?" 

"My  dear  Christopher,  nobody  has  said  a  word," 
protested  Peplow  wildly.  "And  that  we  are  surprised 
as  well  as  gratified  ought  not  to  surprise  you.  In 
any  other  father  it  would  be  regarded  as  perfectly 
natural,  but  your  attitude  has  hitherto  been " 

"Don't  talk  literature,  Fred,"  interrupted  his  wife, 
"eat  your  dinner  like  a  good  old  dear."  Fred  as  a 
rule  was  merely  chatty  in  a  delicate,  superficial  way, 


140  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

but  on  occasion  his  tongue  assumed  a  terrible  fluency 
and  a  curious  poignancy.  This  threatened  to  be  an 
occasion. 

Dunny  laughed.    He  enjoyed  a  row. 

The  three  girls,  the  objects  of  this  discussion,  sat 
quite  mute,  the  two  elder  ones  seemingly  indifferent ; 
Daffy's  mouth  closed  firmly  over  something  she 
evidently  wished  against  her  better  judgment  to 
say. 

"I  am  glad,"  put  in  Gunning,  "my  mother  will  be 
there  through  July,  and — I  am  going  out,  too,  if — if 
things  are  all  right." 

The  interview  with  Sylvia  had  not  yet  taken  place, 
and  immediately  after  dinner  Daffy  engineered  it. 
When  Sylvia  was  safely  settled  in  the  schoolroom  and 
told  to  go  to  sleep,  a  task  always  willingly  performed 
by  her,  and  Susan  had  with  some  difficulty  been  pre- 
vented from  following  her,  Daffy  went  back  to  the 
drawing  room. 

"Oh,  Hughie,"  she  said,  "I  want  to  speak  to  you. 
Do  you  mind  coming  for  a  minute?" 

Gunning  followed  her,  his  face  very  white.  It  was 
a  very  momentous  thing  for  him,  this  talk  with  Sylvia. 
He  had  loved  her  for  years,  although  she  was  even  now 
hardly  a  woman,  and  in  the  realness  of  his  love  he  felt 
himself  so  greatly  her  inferior  that  he  wondered  even 
at  the  eleventh  hour  if  he  should  have  the  courage  to 
ask  her  to  marry  him. 

"Oh,  how  cold  your  hands  are,"  the  friendly  Da.ffy 
exclaimed  as  she  accompanied  him  to  the  foot  of  the 
little  staircase.  "Buck  up  1" 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  141 

"I  say,  Daffy,  don't  let  any  one  come  in,  will  you?" 

He  turned  and  looked  anxiously  at  her. 

"No,  I'll  sit  here  on  the  stairs,  and  if  any  one  comes 
I'll  say  she  is  asleep." 

Even  at  such  a  moment  he  was  shocked  at  the  readi- 
ness of  her  lie.  "I  say,  you  mustn't,"  he  began  in  an 
admonitory  tone,  but  she  cut  him  short. 

"Oh,  do  go  on,  Hughie,  and  don't  preach.  If  I  say 
'you  can't  go  in  because  Hughie  is  asking  her  to  be 

his  w '  they'd  all  go  in  of  course!  Now  do  be 

quick.1' 

He  went  on  upstairs.  She  heard  his  knock  at 
the  door,  then  its  opening  and  closing  and  all  was 
still. 

Sitting  down  on  the  stairs  in  the  dark,  Daffy 
mounted  guard.  It  was  really  frightfully  grown-up 
of  Sylvia  to  be  having  proposals.  They  could  not  be 
married  for  some  time  yet,  of  course,  but  they  would 
be  engaged  and  she'd  have  a  ring  and  Hughie  would 
kiss  her  occasionally.  "I  hope  some  one  will  marry 
Susan  soon ;  I  couldn't  stay  on  with  her  after  Sylvia 
left,"  mused  the  sentry,  her  chin  in  her  hands.  "But 
I  daresay  one  of  the  aunts  will  take  her.  Father  is 
doing  his  duty,  but  he  will  be  glad  to  be  rid  of  them. 
Then  he  and  I  shall  be  alone  again.  Poor  mother.  Oh, 
I  wish — "  she  shuddered  as  the  memory  of  the  dead 
face  they  had  forced  her  to  see,  came  back  to  her.  If 
only  they  had  let  her  remember  her  living  mother. 
That  person  on  the  bed  with  roses  on  her  breast  wasn't 
her  mother  at  all,  it 

It  was  dark  on  the  stairs  and  the  great  House  was 


142  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

very  quiet.  If  only  some  one  would  come.  !Any  one, 
even  a  housemaid.  But  no  one  came. 

Somewhere  in  the  distance  a  clock  ticked  slowly, 
Daffy  counted  the  ticks.  Then  she  told  herself  that 
she  was  fifteen,  nearly  grown  up,  and  in  her  own 
father's  house;  that  her  sister  was  only  ten  yards 
away,  and  that  with  her  sister  was  big,  friendly 
Hughie  Gunning;  that  there  was  absolutely  nothing 
to  be  afraid  of. 

And  yet  in  spite  of  all  this  wisdom,  she  was  afraid 
and  her  fear  grew  every  minute. 

Without  rising,  she  crept  a  step  or  two  higher, 
nearer  to  Sylvia  and  Hughie.  For  a  moment  she  felt 
better,  but  the  terror  came  back  again  and  now  she 
was  cold  all  over. 

She  crept  up  three  more  steps  and  was  now  at  the 
top  of  the  stairs.  There  was  the  door.  Behind  it 
were  those  two.  If  she  were  with  them  she  would  no 
longer  be  afraid. 

Before  the  door  lay  a  black  wooly  rug,  attached  to 
that  particular  place  in  the  days  of  poor,  neuralgic 
Ruggles.  It  seemed  to  Daffy  that  if  she  could  lie  on 
the  rug,  her  troubles  would  be  over.  She  crept  to  it 
on  all  fours  and  sank  softly  into  it,  one  hand 
touching  the  lintel.  After  a  minute  the  beating 
of  her  heart  subsided  to  its  normal  rate,  her  breath 
came. 

With  the  cessation  of  terror,  however,  came  her  old 
feeling  of  shame  at  her  own  silliness  and  a  deep  blush 
burned  her  ears.  "I  will  never  be  a  coward  again," 
she  vowed,  "never,  never." 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  143 

Thus  suddenly  Gunning's  voice  came  to  her 
through  the  door : 

"Sylvia,  darling,"  he  was  stammering,  "I  will  do 
my  very  best  to  make  you  happy.  I — I  know  I  am 
not  nearly  good  enough  for  you." 

Daffy  raised  her  head  excitedly.  Good!  She  had 
said  yes,  then,  so  poor  old  Hughie  was  happy.  "I  am 
glad!"  She  had  no  thought  of  eavesdropping,  her 
one  conscious  sensation  was  that  of  benevolent  satis- 
faction in  the  success  of  her  plan,  and  she  was  about 
to  rise,  now  no  longer  frightened,  and  go  back  to  her 
place  on  the  stairs,  when  the  door  opposite  suddenly 
opened  and  Susan  came  out,  followed  by  a  stream  of 
light. 

"What's  that?"  the  elder  girl  exclaimed  sharply, 
and  she  broke  off  with  a  little  laugh;  "little  sneak," 
she  said,  crossing  the  passage,  "is  Hughie  in  there 
with  Sylvia?  Yes,  I  hear  him.  Really,  Daffy,  you 
ought  to  be  ashamed  of  yourself." 

Daffy  scrambled  to  her  feet.  "I'm  not  a  sneak," 
she  declared  fiercely,  "I've  only  just  this  minute  come, 
and  didn't  come  to  listen  at  all !" 

Susan  smiled.  "Oh,  no,  of  course  not.  You  lay 
down  there  to  rest,  of  course,  it's  the  usual  place,  isn't 
it?  1  wonder  what  Sylvia  will  say?" 

"You — you  won't  tell,"  stammered  Daffy,  "honor 
bright,  Susan,  I  wasn't  sneaking.  Oh,  please  don't 
tell!" 

But  Susan  was  enjoying  herself.  She  opened  the 
door  sharply. 

"Sylvia,  I  say,"  she  began,  when  she  drew  back  as 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 

if  something  had  struck.  Sylvia  lay  on  the  battered 
old  sofa,  and  by  her  Hugh  Gunning  was  kneeling,  his 
face,  with  a  wonderful  expression  on  it,  in  the  full 
light.  "Oh !"  gasped  Susan. 

Sylvia  moved  slowly  and  raised  her  head. 

"Is  it  you,  Susan,  dear?  Come  in,"  she  said  calmly. 
"Who  is  that  behind  you?" 

"It's  only  me,  Sylvia,"  declared  Daffy,  coming  into 
the  room,  "and  don't  believe  her.  I  wasn't  sneaking 
at  all,  indeed,  indeed,  I  wasn't." 

Gunning,  who  had  risen,  turned  toward  her. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked  sternly. 

Susan  entered  with  slow  steps ;  her  face  was  white 
and  her  mouth  drawn  a  little  to  the  left  as  Daffy  had 
seen  it  once  or  twice  when  she  was  very  angry. 

"Nothing,"  she  said,  "only  I  found  Daffy  listening 
at  the  door." 

It  must  be  remembered  that  Susan  believed  herself 
to  be  speaking  the  truth. 

"At  the  door?"  Sylvia  gave  a  little  puzzled  frown. 
"But  she  didn't  know,  Hughie^I  mean  to  say " 

Gunning's  frown  was  one  of  anger  and  drew  his 
straight  dark  brows  together  in  a  kind  of  knot  above 
his  nose. 

"Were  you  listening  at  the  door,  Daffy  ?"  he  asked. 

"I  was  lying  on  the  rug,  and  I  heard  you  say  one 
sentence.  And  I  didn't  come  because  I  wanted  to 
hear,"  she  said  obstinately. 

"Then  why  were  you  on  the  rug?"  He  remembered 
her  proposed  falsehood  of  a  few  minutes  before. 

"I  was  on  the  rug,  because — I  won't  tell  you  why," 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  145 

she  flashed  back.  Then  her  face  settled  into  an  ex- 
pression of  dogged  sullenness. 

Sylvia,  always  gently  disposed,  came  toward  her. 

"Daffy,  dear,  do  tell  us.  If  you  were  on  the  rug, 
what  else  could  Susan  think?" 

But  Daffy  retreated  slowly  toward  the  door. 

"I  won't  tell.  You  may  all  think  what  you  like, 
particularly  Hughie.  I  don't  care." 

When  she  had  gone,  the  three  looked  at  each  other. 

"Surely  she  must  have  had  some  reason,"  Sylvia 
began,  but  Gunning,  his  shyness  up  in  arms  at  the 
thought  of  his  first  and  only  love-making  being  lis- 
tened to,  cut  her  short  gently. 

"She  is  not  truthful,"  he  said,  "and  no  doubt  she 
was  listening." 

Daffy,  on  her  way  downstairs,  heard  this  speech, 
and  stood  for  a  moment  rooted  to  the  spot.  Then  she 
went  slowly  to  her  own  room  and  locked  the  door. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

THERE  was  a  terrible  storm  that  night  on  the 
Sussex  coast.    The  wind,  which  had  been  ris- 
ing   rapidly    all    day,    reached    its    climax 
toward  midnight,  and  swept  like  an  army 
of  wild  things  round  Lambe  House,  bearing  on  its 
wings  the  deep  sound  of  the  thundering  sea. 

Hugh  Gunning,  too  happy  to  sleep,  spent  the 
greater  part  of  the  night  by  his  window,  closing  it 
from  time  to  time  when  the  driving  rain  threatened  to 
do  serious  damage  to  the  room  behind  him,  opening  it 
again  when  the  tempest  seemed  to  quiet  down. 

Once  the  young  man  went  downstairs  and  fetched  a 
book,  but  he  could  not  read  and  soon  put  out  his  light 
once  more  and  watched  the  night  progress  toward 
morning. 

The  episode  of  Daffy's  listening  at  the  door  had 
quite  faded  from  his  mind,  which  was  naturally  occu- 
pied with  the  future  which  was  so  golden  to  him. 

"How  frightened  I  was,"  he  mused,  laughing  in- 
dulgently at  that  strange,  inglorious  young  man  of 
the  evening  before,  that  Hugh  Gunning  to  whom  no 
Goddess  had  bent  from  Olympus !  "Lord,  how  my 
voice  shook  when  I  asked  might  I  come  in  !  The  dear ! 
Oh,  the  blessed  angel,  how  lovely  she  looked  asleep  on 
that  old  sofa." 

146 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  147 

It  would  have  amused  Daffy  to  know  that  Sylvia 
had  been  asleep  when  the  momentous  interview  be- 
gan. "And  her  Jovely  hair  was  like  a  golden  veil. 
What  was  it  she  said?  Oh,  yes,  'Is  that  you,  Susan?' 
And  then  when  she  saw  it  was  me,  and  she  pinned  her 
hair  up  in  a  big  lump,  and  said  so  sweetly,  'Come  in, 
Hughie  dear !' " 

Sylvia  had,  once  she  was  thoroughly  awake,  been 
glad  to  see  her  friend.  Her  mother  had  loved  him,  and 
Daffy  had  explained  that  Lady  Norah  had  sent  for 
him,  and  so  he  was  doubly  welcome. 

He  showed  her  the  telegram  and  she  had  cried  a  lit- 
tle, so  he  had  lent  her  his  handkerchief,  and  for  a  few 
minutes  they  had  talked  of  the  poor  lady  who  had 
died. 

Then  Gunning  had  asked  her  to  marry  him.  Seek 
in  his  memory  as  he  might,  he  could  not  recall  the  vital 
words  in  which  he  had  couched  the  great  question. 
Had  he  said,  "Sylvia,  dear,  I  love  you.  Will  you 
marry  me?"  Or  had  he  been  humbler  and  begun  by 
self-belittlement  ? 

It  seriously  annoyed  him  that  he  could  not  remem- 
ber, but  as  a  matter  of  fact  he  had  burst  out,  "Oh, 
Sylvia,  she  said  I  might  ask  you — do  you  think  you 
could  ever  marry  me?" 

And  Sylvia,  whose  mind  was  always  more  or  less  of 
a  blank  on  which  any  hand  might  inscribe  ideas  for 
her,  had  said  almost  without  hesitation  that  if  darling 
mamma  had  wished  it,  and  he  did,  she  didn't  see  why 
she  shouldn't. 

Then  he  had  kissed  her  hands  and  said  the  words 


148  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

the  unfortunate  Daffy  had  overheard,  and  Susan  had 
opened  her  door. 

Sylvia,  as  he  sat  by  his  window  through  the  night, 
was  sleeping  soundly,  dreaming  of  nothing,  hardly 
moving  in  her  utter  peace,  as  the  hours  passed. 

It  is  much  easier  to  describe  a  complicated  mind  than 
to  give  any  outsider  an  idea  of  a  mind  like  the  beauti- 
ful Miss  Lambe's. 

She  was  kind,  she  was  not  abnormally  selfish,  she 
was  not  precisely  dull.  She  had  been  well  educated 
and  her  occasional  necessary  speeches  were  not  re- 
markable for  stupidity.  She  was  like  a  wound-up 
automaton  more  than  a  living  girl,  and  she  went 
through  the  movements  accurately,  but  she  had  not 
one  single  original  idea  or  one  pulse  in  her  whole  com- 
position. 

This  Gunning  did  not  know,  and  it  would  have  been 
a  very  exceptional  man  who,  looking  at  such  beauty  as 
Sylvia's,  would  have  noticed  her  deficiencies.  If  she 
said  it  was  fine,  she  looked  so  lovely  that  her  words 
seemed  perfection,  too. 

When  they  were  interrupted  and  Sylvia  suggested 
that  they  should  all  go  back  to  the  drawing  room, 
Gunning  had  been  disappointed,  but  even  that  had 
seemed  perfect.  Susan,  who  had  said  nothing  of  what 
she  saw  when  she  opened  the  door,  left  them  at 
the  foot  of  the  little  stairs  and  went  to  her  own 
room. 

There  Sylvia  had  said,  "Hughie,  am  I  very  un- 
tidy?" And,  emboldened  by  the  dark  of  the  corridor 
and  its  emptiness,  he  kissed  her  and  she  smiled  at  him. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  149 

She  was,  he  reflected,  too  young,  too  perfectly  uncon- 
scious to  be  confused  by  a  kiss. 

They  sat  for  another  hour  listening  to  the  dull, 
tired-out  talk  of  their  elders  in  the  drawing  room, 
and  the  party  had  then  broken  up  for  the  night. 

In  all  the  vast  house  only  three  people  were  awake. 
Of  the  others,  Susan  sat  crouching  in  her  bed, 
her  eyes  fierce  and  bright.  Susan,  though  only  seven- 
teen, was  much  older  in  some  ways  than  Sylvia. 
She  was  cleverer,  in  the  first  place,  and  then  no 
part  of  her  mind  was  asleep,  as  Sylvia's  seemed 
to  be. 

And  Sylvia  had  been  hers. 

Twofold  jealousy  raged  in  the  girl  that  night; 
jealousy  of  Gunning  for  taking  Sylvia  from  her,  and 
jealousy  of  Sylvia  for  taking  Gunning  from  her.  She 
loved  only  these  two  people  in  the  whole  world,  and 
they  were  each  robbing  her  of  the  other. 

It  is  a  curious  thing  that  Susan  Lambe,  of  the  three 
sisters,  undoubtedly  the  worst  in  character,  was  the 
only  one  with  a  strong  maternal  instinct. 

She  was  not  only  perfectly  innocent,  but  as  nearly 
ignorant  in  some  aspects  of  life  as  a  girl  of  her  age 
could  be.  Yet  she  not  only  loved  Gunning,  but  her 
chief  hurt  in  the  conflict  she  so  suddenly  found  herself 
engaged  in  was  that  now  Sylvia  and  not  she  should 
be  the  mother  of  Gunning's  children.  She  loved  Sylvia 
passionately,  but  she  had  never  been  other  than  wide- 
eyed  to  her  sister's  strange  lack  of  personality.  "She 
is  beautiful,"  had  always  been  the  unformulated 
thought,  "but  she  isn't  a  real  person ;  she  has  no  inside 


150  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

self."  And  thinking  thus  she  had  underrated  Sylvia's 
effect  on  the  male  imagination. 

Gunning  liked  Sylvia  best,  yes,  but  when  they  were 
grown  up  his  mind  would  naturally  turn  to  hers — to 
Susan's. 

She  had  never  once  seen,  what  Daffy  had  known 
for  years,  that  Gunning  had  loved  Sylvia  with  a  man's 
love  for  the  one  woman  almost  before  she  had  grown 
away  from  childhood. 

And  now  the  shock  was  so  much  the  greater. 

Susan  Lambe  was  unscrupulous  and  strong-willed. 
The  end  of  her  stormy  night  was  the  thought,  as  she 
finally  dropped  asleep  exhausted,  "He  shall  not  marry 
her.  I'll  prevent  it  somehow." 

Meantime  Gunning  was  being  led  by  his  restless 
happiness  into  an  adventure. 

The  stable  clock  had  struck  half -past  three  when 
he  put  on  a  long  coat  and  a  cap  and  crept  through 
the  silent  house  to  the  front  door.  The  storm  was 
still  raging,  but  the  rain  had  ceased,  and  there  were 
breaks  in  the  lead-colored  clouds.  Day  was  close  on 
the  heels  of  night  and  he  felt  that  he  must  have  a 
walk. 

The  ground  slopped  about  under  his  feet,  the  lawn 
was  like  a  great  sponge,  and  the  trees  oozed  water 
from  every  pore. 

Gunning  crossed  the  lawn  to  the  left,  went  up  a 
flight  of  steep  stone  steps,  and  after  a  quick  tramp 
under  thick-set  trees  came  out  on  the  downs.  Here,  by 
comparison  with  the  darkness  he  had  left  behind  him, 
day  seemed  to  have  come. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  151 

He  sniffed  eagerly  at  the  fresh  air  and  stuffed  his 
cap  into  his  pocket. 

It  was  good  to  be  out  of  doors.  He  would  like  to 
shout  to  the  coming  dawn  that  Sylvia  was  his,  that 
he  was  a  king  among  men. 

Instead  of  which  he  whistled  softly  between  his 
teeth  as  he  went  toward  the  sea.  The  great  waves 
roared  angrily  on  the  beach,  singing  and  whirling 
round  the  little  jetty  off  to  the  right.  Their  noise  was 
deafening. 

He  stood  at  the  edge  of  the  cliff  looking  down.  The 
water  was  dashing  up  to  the  foot  of  the  wooden  steps, 
which  looked  very  frail  and  unsafe  under  its  on- 
slaught. 

Suddenly  Gunning  gave  a  little  exclamation  and 
looked  fixedly  down  the  steps  to  where  at  the  water's 
edge  a  little  dark  heap  lay. 

At  first  he  thought  it  was  somebody  lying 
there,  and  then  he  saw  that  it  was  only  a  heap  of 
clothing. 

"What  on  earth—" 

No  one  was  in  sight  and  it  was  only  four  o'clock. 
Whose  clothes  could  be  lying  there,  almost  in  the  sea, 
and  where  was  their  owner? 

Stricken  by  a  sudden  fear,  he  went  slowly  down  the 
steps  into  the  darkness  of  the  little  cave. 

"Are  you  there?"  he  called. 

No  one  answered. 

Down  he  went,  farther  and  farther,  and  then  as  he 
reached  the  foot  of  the  steps  he  recognized  a  dark 
cloak  that  Daffy  had  been  wearing  of  late. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 

All  round  him  stretched  the  sea,  cold  and  dark  and 
menacing.  He  stood  still  and  shouted. 

"Daffy!" 

Still  no  answer.  Then  he  saw,  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
out,  a  small  dark  thing  coming  slowly  toward  him. 
It  was  Daffy's  head.  She  came  nearer  and  nearer, 
and  before  she,  battling  with  the  waves,  had  seen  him, 
he  could  see  that  she  was  very  pale. 

When  she  saw  him  she  paused. 

"Go  away,"  she  called.    "What  do  you  want?" 

"Come  in  out  of  that  freezing  water." 

"I  can't  come  in  till  you  go  away,"  she  called  back, 
"I  have  no  clothes  on." 

Relieved  in  spite  of  his  amazement,  he  retired  to 
the  top  of  the  steps,  and  in  a  few  minutes  she  joined 
him,  clothed,  staggering  a  little  and  very  white. 

"What  on  earth  have  you  been  doing?"  he  asked 
her,  now  that  she  was  safe,  thoroughly  angry  with  her. 

"Hughie,"  she  laid  one  icy  little  paw  on  his  sleeve 
and  looked  solemnly  at  him,  "I  wasn't  listening.  On 
my  word  of  honor  I  wasn't.  Do  you  believe  me?" 

"Of  course  I  do.    But — what  were  you  doing?" 

So  she  told  him  the  little  tale,  of  her  senseless  ter- 
ror, of  her  creeping  closer  to  the  door  for  mere  human 
companionship.  "You  know  what  a  coward  I  am," 
she  added. 

"Yes,  I  know.  Poor  little  Daffy.  Well,  I  believe 
you,  but  why  didn't  you  tell  them?" 

It  was  day  now  and  Gunning  always  remembered 
the  queer  luminousness  of  her  cold  little  face  in  the 
uncanny  light. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  153 

"Because,"  she  spoke  slowly,  "I  hate  Susan  and  I'd 
rather  have  her  think  me  a  sneak  than  know  I  am  a 
coward." 

"Oh,  I  say !"  Gunning's  power  of  speech  fled  under 
his  surprise  at  her  words. 

"Yes,  far  rather.  But  you  said  that  I  told  lies  and 
so  had  probably  eavesdropped." 

"Well — you  do  tell  lies,"  he  protested.  "I've  often 
meant  to  go  for  you  about  it,  Daffy,  and  now  that  I'm 
going  to  be  your  brother — " 

"Wait  a  minute,  Hughie — and  if  you  don't  mind 
I'll  lean  on  you.  I  am  never  going  to  tell  another  lie 
as  long  as  I  live.  You  must  believe  me.  You  know 
how  frightened  I  am  of — of  things.  Well — "  she 
was  indeed  leaning  on  him  and  he  was  alarmed  by  a 
queer  look  in  her  face,  "I  went  to-night  at  one  o'clock 
through  the  storm,  all  alone  to — to  the  churchyard, 
and — I  swore  it  on  mother's — on  mother's  grave — " 

She  did  not  so  much  fall  as  slide,  like  something 
liquid,  through  his  arms  to  the  ground. 

For  a  moment  he  talked  to  her,  telling  her  to  be 
good  and  get  up  and  go  home  with  him,  and  then, 
seeing  that  she  was  quite  unconscious,  he  picked  her 
up  and  carried  her  back  to  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XX 

IT  always  seemed  to  Gunning  that  Daffy  was 
never  again  after  that  night  quite  the  same  child 
that  she  had  been  before  it. 

She  did  not  seem  exactly  older,  for  in  some 
subtle  way  her  efforts  to  overcome  her  life-long  habit 
of  telling  comfortable  little  lies  gave  her  a  childlike 
earnestness  about  trifles  that  increased  her  youthful 
aspect  rather  than  decreased  it. 

It  was  to  Gunning  almost  piteous  to  watch  her 
pause  in  the  full  flight  of  some  harmless  fib  and  take 
it  back  with  a  stony  face. 

But  nevertheless  she  had  changed  in  some  way  he 
could  not  exactly  define,  and  occupied  though  he  was 
with  his  own  happiness,  he  yet  found  time  to  study 
her. 

Ten  days  after  the  funeral  Lambe  took  his  family 
abroad  and  Gunning,  in  his  character  of  accepted 
suitor,  accompanied  them. 

It  was  an  exceedingly  warm  day  and  the  boat  was 
crowded.  Lambe  and  Gunning  having  secured  a  cabin 
for  the  girls,  Lambe  walked  away  and  sat  reading  all 
the  way  across. 

Gunning  found  chairs  and  the  four  young  people 
sat  down.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  him  that  Susan 
looked  ill. 

154 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  155 

"Anything  wrong,  Sukey  ?"  he  asked  her,  using  an 
old  nickname  of  his  own  for  her. 

She  looked  up  from  the  book. 

"What  should  be  wrong?"  she  asked  coldly,  "and  I 
wish  you  wouldn't  call  me  by  that  obnoxious  name, 
Hugh." 

"All  right,  sorry.  Let  me,"  his  voice  changing 
suddenly  as  he  turned  to  Sylvia,  "put  that  cushion  be- 
hind you,  dearest." 

Susan's  upper  lip  stirred  scornfully  as  she  sat  with 
her  eyes  fixed  on  her  book. 

Sylvia  fanned  herself.  "How  very  warm  it  is, 
Hugh,"  she  said  presently,  "quite  uncomfortable.  I 
think  I'll  take  a  little  nap  if  you  don't  mind." 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  in  a  moment  was  sound 
asleep,  her  delicate  coloring  brought  into  relief  by  the 
deep  blue  of  her  pillow. 

Daffy,  who  sat  opposite  to  her,  leaned  toward  Gun- 
ning. 

"Hughie,  look  at  those  two  men.  How  they  stare 
at  Sylvia.  They  can't  be  English." 

They  were  not.  They  were  obviously  Latins,  in 
spite  of  their  London  made  clothes,  and  the  elder  of 
the  two  was  extremely  handsome  in  his  exotic  way. 
After  a  few  seconds'  talk  with  one  of  the  hovering  sea- 
men, the  strangers  were  provided  with  chairs,  and  sit- 
ting down,  settled  themselves  for  the  crossing.  The 
handsome  one's  velvety  black  eyes  wandered  ostenta- 
tiously round  the  neighboring  faces,  and  once  or  twice 
he  directed  his  friend's  attention  to  some  one  off  to  the 
right  or  left,  but  invariably  his  gaze  came  back  and 


156  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

settled  on  Sylvia.  It  was  a  strange  gaze,  extremely 
pertinacious  and  at  the  same  time  inoffensive.  He 
stared,  it  was  plain,  because  he  could  not  resist  doing 
so,  but  he  had  no  wish  to  be  observed  in  it,  and 
when  he  met  Gunning's  eyes  he  at  once  looked 
away. 

"Isn't  he  funny?"  whispered  Daffy,  "and  did  ever 
you  see  such  eyelashes  in  your  life?" 

Susan  continued  to  read  and  Sylvia  slept  on  as 
peacefully  as  if  she  were  in  her  bed  at  Lambe  House. 
Gunning  and  Daffy  exchanged  a  few  remarks  from 
time  to  time,  and  the  exotic  one  continued  his  gaz- 
ing. 

"I've  seen  that  chap  somewhere,"  said  Gunning  to 
Daffy,  as  the  boat  neared  the  pier,  "and  I  can't  think 
where.  He  might  be  a  small  royalty — now  they're 
gone,  thank  goodness." 

Sylvia  opened  her  beautiful  mouth  and  showed 
many  teeth  in  a  yawn  as  unconscious  as  that  of  a  kit- 
ten. Then  she  opened  her  eyes  and  rumpled  up  her 
nose. 

"Ah-h,  I've  been  asleep,"  she  said,  with  the  air  of 
one  declaring  an  astonishing  fact. 

"You  have,  indeed,  and  here  we  are  in  Calais.  The 
first  time  you've  been  in  France." 

Sylvia  rose,  still  yawning,  but  now  suppressing  the 
fact  with  a  slim  hand. 

"I  am  so  sleepy,"  she  answered.  France  or  Tim- 
buctoo,  it  was  all  the  same  to  her. 

Susan  was  different,  history  interested  her  and  in 
her  schoolgirl  mind  at  once  appeared  a  vision  of  Mary 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  157 

Queen  of  Scots  waving  her  hand  to  the  fair  land  she 
was  leaving. 

Daffy  meantime  was  helping  the  excited  and  hen- 
like  Judd,  her  sisters'  maid,  to  get  the  luggage  on 
shore. 

Judd,  who  was  extremely  indignant  that  the  porter 
she  had  chosen  spoke  in  French,  was  driving  several 
people  to  desperation  by  her  antics  in  the  gangway. 
Her  own  bag  was  lost  and  of  course  was  to  her  of 
far  more  importance  than  the  ninety  and  nine  bags,  so 
to  speak,  of  her  young  ladies ! 

"I  'ad  it  when  we  came  on  board,"  she  kept  saying, 
"I  'ad  it  in  my  'and—" 

"Oh,  do  be  quiet,  Judd,"  said  Daffy  good-na- 
turedly, "don't  yell  so.  If  it's  in  the  boat  you'll  find 
it.  Now,  where's  your  landing- ticket ?  Give  it 
to  the  man — no — I  don't  want  it.  Give  it  to  the 
man" 

Judd,  who  was  now  weeping,  declared  that  the  only 
thing  she  desired  in  life  was  a  speedy  return  to  her 
own  country,  and  Daffy,  leaving  her  to  look  for  her 
lost  bag,  went  on  with  the  infuriated  porter  to  the 
douane,  where  she  got  her  things  through  with  the 
rapidity  and  facility  of  the  born  traveler,  who  most 
decidedly  nascitur  non  fit. 

When  her  task  was  over  she  prepared  to  follow  her 
sisters  and  their  bodyguard  into  the  restaurant,  when 
the  handsome  dark  man  of  the  boat  came  up  to  her,  a 
small  black  bag  in  his  hand. 

"Pardon,  mademoiselle,"  he  said  in  bad  French,  "I 
believe  this  is  the  object  lost  by  your  maid?" 


158  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Daffy  took  it.  "Oh,  thanks  so  much,  it  is  very 
almablc  of  you,"  she  returned  hastily.  Then  she  went 
on  to  the  restaurant. 

At  a  table  at  the  far  end  of  the  crowded  room  sat 
Judd,  but  she  failed  to  see  Daffy's  signal,  so  the  girl 
took  the  bag  to  where  her  father  had  conducted  his 
party  and  where  a  strange-looking  but  extremely 
toothsome  ragout  of  beef  and  onions  was  being  par- 
taken of. 

"That  good-looking  man,  the  foreigner,  found 
Judd's  bag  and  brought  it  to  me.  Nice  and  civil, 
wasn't  it?  I  think  he  had  been  back  on  to  the  boat 
for  it." 

"My  dear  Daff,  we  are  the  foreigners  now,  not  the 
French  and  Italians,"  commented  Lambe.  "I've  seen 
the  fellow  somewhere.  He's  not  French,  I  should 
think,  too  big." 

"My  word,  this  stew,  or  whatever  it  is,  is  good,"  re- 
marked Sylvia.  "More,  please." 

And  she  looked  as  if  honey  dew  and  the  milk  of 
Paradise  were  fit  food  for  her. 

Just  as  the  party  was  leaving  a  small  and  corpulent 
German,  with  his  hair  cut  so  like  a  hair  brush  as  to 
obviate  all  necessity  for  his  possessing  such  an  article, 
came  up  to  the  table. 

Making  a  lengthy  and  gruff  remark  which  none  of 
the  party  understood,  he  glared  at  Lambe  and  awaited 
an  answer. 

"Sorry,  sir,  we  none  of  us  have  the  privilege  of 
speaking  your  beautiful  language,"  returned  Lambe 
civilly  in  French. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  159 

The  man  began  again,  this  time  with  the  obvious 
intention  of  being  offensive. 

Lambe  called  a  waiter.  "Ask  this  person  what  the 
matter  is,"  he  said  impatiently,  "we  don't  understand 
him." 

But  the  waiter  unfortunately  knew  only  his  own 
language  and  English. 

"I  will  call  anozzer  waiter,"  he  said,  and  disap- 
peared. 

A  train  whistled,  the  train  for  Brussels-Cologne. 
The  German  became  violent.  Two  Americans  at  the 
next  table  attempted  to  come  to  the  rescue,  and  then 
as  the  train  whistled  again  the  German  made  a  dive 
at  Judd's  bag  and  fled  with  it  toward  the  door. 

"Hi,  stop  him — that's  my  bag,"  called  Lambe,  now 
thoroughly  angry,  "he's  mad  or  drunk — stop 
him." 

Two  waiters  caught  the  raging  Teuton,  whose  lan- 
guage was  apparently  extremely  inflamed,  and  while 
the  train  slid  away  a  fat  German  lady  came  forward 
and  engaged  in  conversation  with  her  countryman. 

"The  gentleman  say  he  will  his  loggage  have ;  that 
the  bag  to  him  certainly  belongs." 

"The  bag,  certainly  not,"  declared  Daffy,  "it's  my 
sister's  maid's  bag ;  it  was  left  on  the  boat  and  a  gen- 
tleman went  back  and  got  it." 

"He  says  it  his  own  bag  is.  He  will  have  it  or  he 
will  the  police  call,"  continued  the  old  lady  gently. 
"He  is  very  aufgeregt,  the  gentleman." 

There  was  now  a  crowd  gathered  round  the  dis- 
putants and  the  train  was  going  in  a  few  minutes. 


160  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"Call  Judd,"  suggested  Susan  sensibly,  and  Gun- 
ning went  for  her. 

"Come  here,  will  you,  Judd,"  he  said,  "the  young 
ladies  want  you." 

Judd,  murmuring  something  about  leaving  her  cup 
of  tea,  made  her  way  through  the  crowd. 

"Yes,  miss?"  she  asked  sourly. 

"Oh,  there  you  are."  Daffy  held  up  the  bag  which 
had  been  wrested  from  the  adversary. 

"This  lunatic  thinks  your  bag  is  his,  Judd — a  gen- 
tleman brought  it  off  the  boat." 

Judd  swallowed  her  last  bit  of  bread  and  butter. 

"Beg  pardon,  miss,"  she  returned,  "that  isn't  my 
bag  at  all.  I  never  see  it  before." 

As  she  spoke  she  produced  her  own  bag  and  the 
German  uttered  a  loud  yell  of  rage  and  danced  up  and 
down. 

"The  gentleman  says  he  has  his  train  missed;  he 
was  going  to  Coin  and  the  train  has  several  minutes, 
before  during  the  talking,  gone." 

Daffy  turned  a  deep  red. 

"Oh,  dear,"  she  moaned,  "what  an  idiot  I  am.  That 
man  told  me  it  was  Judd's  bag  and  I  took  it. 
I  had  never  seen  Judd's  bag  in  my  life.  Oh,"  to 
the  old  lady,  "please  tell  him  how  dreadfully  sorry 
I  am." 

The  old  lady  explained,  but  the  man  continued  to 
prance  and  scold. 

At  last  Lambe,  with  a  polite  apology,  forced  on  his 
acceptance  gold  pieces  for  his  lost  train  and  a  large 
bottle  of  beer  for  his  immediate  consolation. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  161 

No  one  of  the  Lambe  party  spoke  until  they  were 
in  the  train.  Then  Susan  said: 

"Really,  Daffy,  you  are  too  stupid !  Why  couldn't 
you  at  least  ask  Judd?" 

Daffy's  humiliation  was  extreme,  but  she  would 
stand  no  correction  from  Susan. 

"Oh,  do  shut  up,  Susan,"  she  answered  rudely.  "I 
was  at  least  working  when  it  happened,  and  however 
stupid  I  am,  I  was  trying  to  help  your  maid." 

Susan  subsided. 

At  Amiens,  as  Sylvia  dozed  in  her  corner,  Daffy, 
leaning  out  looking  for  the  macaroon  man,  turned  ex- 
citedly to  Gunning.  "Oh,  Hughie,"  she  cried,  "there's 
the  dark  man  again — the  man  who  brought  the  bag." 

"I  dare  say,"  laughed  Gunning. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

ONE  day  in  late  June  Donna  Mabel  Acqua- 
dolce  was  sitting  in  her  high-perched  per- 
gola on  one  of  the  hills  behind  Sorrento 
reading  a  novel. 

It  was  very  warm,  even  now  at  five  o'clock,  but  the 
little  lady  was  used  to  heat  and  did  not  mind  it.  She 
sat  at  one  end  of  the  pergola  and  before  her  spread 
a  very  beautiful  view,  at  which  she  hardly  glanced. 

Near  her,  on  a  little  rustic  table,  stood  a  jug  of  iced 
barley-water  and  two  glasses,  one  of  which  was  un- 
used. 

Donna  Mabel  wore  a  short-sleeved  frock  of  pale 
mousseline  de  soie,  on  which  sprawled  roses,  and  on  a 
chair  near  lay  an  elaborately  frilled  pink  sunbonnet. 
Her  make-up,  innocently  obvious,  was  carefully  put  on 
that  day,  but  her  hair,  hitherto  of  a  bright  reddish 
brown,  was  now  frankly  gray,  so  that  her  faded  face 
looked  the  younger  for  its  softening  effect. 

Below  the  pergola  lay  the  little  formal  garden,  its 
trees  and  plants  now  gray  with  dust,  for  there  had 
been  no  rain  for  a  month,  then  came  the  villa,  newly 
painted  a  delicate  shell  pink,  and  beyond  and  below  it 
trees  and  more  villas  down  to  the  distant  bay,  very 
blue  in  the  sun. 

"Arrigo!" 

162 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  163 

Donna  Mabel  closed  her  book  impatiently  and  called 
in  a  highly  pitched  voice,  "Arrigo !" 

After  a  long  pause  an  old  man  in  brand  new  livery 
came  out  of  the  house,  one  wrinkled  hand  to  his  eyes. 
"Excellenza !" 

Slowly  he  came  up  the  slope,  and  pausing  at  the 
foot  of  the  steps  that  led  to  the  pergola,  he  drew  a 
deep  breath  and  began  the  ascent. 

"You  needn't  come  up,  Arrigo,"  his  mistress  called 
down  to  him  kindly.  "I  only  want  to  know  the  time. 
Clara  forgot  to  give  me  my  watch." 

"It  is  twenty  minutes  to  eighteen  o'clock,  Excel- 
lenza," he  answered,  referring  to  his  own  timepiece. 

"The  carriage  is  late." 

"Si,  Excellenza,  the  train  is  probably  late — it  is  so 
very  warm — "  He  broke  off  as  he  spoke,  turning  and 
looking  across  the  garden  to  his  right.  "It  seems  I 
hear  wheels  even  now,"  he  murmured,  "but  my  ears  are 
bad." 

Donna  Mabel  rose  excitedly.  "Your  ears  are  right 
for  once,  good  old  man,"  she  declared  kindly,  "it  is 
the  carriage.  Run,  Arrigo,  and  see  that  everything  is 
ready  for  him." 

Tying  her  absurd  sunbonnet  under  her  chin  she  ran 
along  the  upper  terrace  to  the  garden  wall  and  leaned 
over  it. 

A  carriage  was  struggling  up  the  last  steep  bit  of 
the  ascent,  almost  completely  hidden  by  a  cloud  of  saf- 
fron-colored dust. 

Convinced  that  her  expected  guest  really  was  ar- 
riving, Donna  Mabel  went  down  the  steps  at  the  June- 


164  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

tion  of  the  terrace  and  the  wall,  where  she  stood,  and 
ran  back  through  the  garden  as  lightly  as  if  she  had 
been  a  young  girl. 

Crossing  the  cool  dark  hall  of  the  villa,  she  went 
out  into  the  little  courtyard  on  its  farther  side  and 
stood  by  the  gilded  iron  gates  which  the  gardener  was 
then  opening. 

The  carriage  lumbered  in  and  stopped. 

"Well,  Mother—" 

"You  dear,  dear  boy !" 

Hugh  Gunning  kissed  her  affectionately  and  then 
held  her  out  at  arm's  length  and  looked  at  her. 

"Prettier  than  ever,"  he  said. 

"Nonsense!  But  come  in  out  of  the  heat.  How 
dreadfully  dusty  you  are.  It's  a  good  thing  you  have 
not  come  to  marry  me;  I  should  be  afraid  of  such  a 
great  untidy  person!" 

"The  journey  has  been  fearful.  I'll  have  a  wash  at 
once,  if  I  may,  and  then  we'll  talk." 

"Arrigo  has  gone  to  draw  your  bath." 

"Good." 

Half  an  hour  later  they  sat  together  in  the  greenish 
light  of  the  brick-floored  drawing  room,  Gunning 
drinking  tea  like  a  true  Briton,  his  mother  sipping  at 
an  iced  drink  of  a  rich  crimson  color. 

"And  now  tell  me  all  about  it.  The  house  is  quite 
ready?" 

"Yes.  Everything  is  ready.  It's  a  dear  old  place, 
Mammina.  I  was  so  glad  to  be  able  to  get  the  furni- 
ture, too,  new  stuff  looks  so  out  of  place  in  an  old 
house,  and  all  this  is  good.  The  drawing  room  is  really 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  165 

exquisite,  all  delicate  spindly  things,  the  walls  hung 
with  very  faded  gray  satin  brocade,  like  silver  chas- 
ing, and  even  the  pictures  are  deliciously  suitable — 
pastel  portraits,  for  the  most  part.  It  was  a  great  bit 
of  luck,  wasn't  it  ?" 

"It  was,  indeed.    Very  dear,  I  suppose?" 

"Well,  yes,  rather,  but  so  exactly  what  I  wanted 
for  her,  so  absolutely  suited  to  her.  Wait  till  you  see 
her  there.  I  can't  believe  it  even  now,  mother.  It's  so 
extraordinary  that  she  should  really  care  for  me" 

She  bridled  at  the  humility  of  his  voice. 

"Nonsense,  my  son.  She  may  consider  herself  a 
very  fortunate  girl  to  have  a  husband  like  you.  That's 
what  /  say.  By  the  way,  we  dine  with  them  to-night 
at  half -past  eight.  The  girls  were  here  yesterday  in 
colors  for  the  first  time,  poor  dears." 

Gunning  smiled  dreamily  to  himself.  "What  did 
she  wear?"  he  asked,  ignoring  the  very  existence  of 
the  other  two. 

Donna  Mabel  clapped  her  hands. 

"I  knew  you'd  ask,  so  I  took  particular  mental 
notes.  Palest  pink  it  was,  and  a  silver  gray  hat,  and 
one  of  those  long  chiffon  scarfs,  also  silver  gray. 
She  looked  very  beautiful.  She  has  her  hair  parted  in 
the  middle  now  and  bunched  up  on  her  neck — she  sat 
in  that  chair  where  you  are  and  went  to  sleep  after 
tea." 

"Poor  darling,  she  does  go  to  sleep  so  easily!  I 
fear  she  is  not  very  strong,  mother." 

"Nonsense,  she's  simply  appallingly  indolent.  She 
never  worries  about  anything  and  very  rarely  reads. 


166  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

She'll  never  lose  her  looks,  at  any  rate ;  these  placid 
women  don't.     I  met  her  in  the  Poggio  a  few  weeks 
ago ;  she  had  on  a  Greek-shaped  thing,  a  sort  of  tea-  . 
gown,  and  upon  my  word,  one  would  have  said  one  of  j 
the  statues  had  come  down  from  her  pedestal  for  a 
little — a  little  very  gentle  exercise.     She  will  set  all 
London  by  the  ears,  Hughie." 

"I  shan't  take  her  much  to  London,"  he  returned, 
with  the  calm  assumption  of  future  all-wise  authority 
common  to  engaged  men.  "She  has  never  been  and 
she  wouldn't  like  it." 

Donna  Mabel  poured  out  more  tea  for  him,  a 
doubtful  smile  on  her  kind,  rather  silly  little  face. 

"You  think  so?  Si  vedra.  I  had  a  letter  from 
Lady  Corisande  Peplow  the  other  day.  She  is  very 
angry  with  Mr.  Lambe  for  allowing  the  girl  to  marry 
before  she  has  'tasted  blood.' ' 

"Faugh !  Nasty  expression.  The  truth  is,  Mother, 
no  one  but  me  understands  Sylvia.  She  is  so  wonder- 
ful to  look  at  that  people  get  no  further.  Her  mind 
is  really  very  unusual." 

But  Donna  Mabel,  though  silly,  was  shrewd  in  some 
ways,  and  even  her  maternal  patience  could  not  stand 
an  elucidation  of  Sylvia  Lambe's  soul. 

"It's  nearly  seven  now,  Ugolino  mio,"  she  said,  ris- 
ing, "and  the  drive  is  long.  I  must  go  and  put  on 
my  war-paint.  Can  you  be  ready  at  ten  minutes  be- 
fore eight?" 

He  opened  and  closed  the  door  for  her  with  just  a 
little  more  ceremony  than  he  would  have  shown  had 
his  bringing-up  been  strictly  English.  Then  he 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  167 

walked  restlessly  about  the  long  narrow  room,  his 
hands  behind  him. 

The  room  was  attractive,  though  very  shabby,  for 
Donna  Mabel  hated  new  things  and  clung  almost  pite- 
ously  to  things  her  beautiful  young  Italian  husband 
had  lived  among. 

The  chintz,  therefore,  was  very  faded,  and  every- 
thing looked  old-fashioned,  though  nothing  was  really 
old. 

There  were  three  pictures  of  the  late  Marquis,  one 
a  badly  done  oil  portrait  of  him  at  about  sixteen,  a 
bold,  handsome  boy  with  thick,  clustered  curls,  and 
the  other  two  were  photographs.  These  stood  on 
Donna  Mabel's  writing-table  and  showed  him  as  he 
had  been  at  the  time  of  the  marriage — one  very  dash- 
ing in  cavalry  uniform,  the  other  in  ultra-British 
clothes,  a  bulldog  by  his  side. 

"Poor  little  Madre,"  said  Gunning  aloud,  as  he 
stood  looking  at  those  two.  His  mother  was  very  dear 
to  him.  In  the  year  that  had  passed  since  the  jour- 
ney hither  from  England  with  the  Lambes  his  face  had 
changed  very  markedly.  He  looked  much  older,  but 
stronger  and  more  decided  than  before,  though 
strength  and  decision  had,  even  in  his  boyhood,  been 
his  greatest  characteristics. 

It  was  a  wonderfully  happy  face,  but  grave  with 
the  gravity  of  one  who  carries  in  his  breast  the  great- 
est treasure  in  the  world.  His  love  for  Sylvia  was  to 
him  a  kind  of  consecration  and  his  face  shone  with  its 
light.  Not  many  men  are  capable  of  love  such  as  he 
gave  to  Sylvia ;  from  his  earliest  youth  she  had  been 


168  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

his  ideal,  his  mind  had  never  wavered  from  the  thought 
of  her;  he  had  had  no  flirtations,  no  fancies,  he  had 
never  been  "taken  in  hand"  by  a  married  woman. 
Since  that  night  when  he  had  found  the  Lambe  chil- 
dren adrift  in  the  boat,  he  had  loved  Sylvia,  and  now 
that  their  wedding  day  was  close  at  hand  the  result, 
if  not  the  reward,  of  his  constancy  was  an  exaltation 
of  soul  such  as  comparatively  few  young  men  can 
know. 

It  was  almost  as  if  he  were  a  very  devout  youth 
about  to  attain  his  coronation  of  priesthood. 

Hugh  Gunning  was  a  shy  man,  even  with  himself, 
and  never  told  himself  these  things ;  he  was  not  given 
to  self -analysis.  But  the  feelings  that  surged  in  his 
heart  that  evening  as  his  mother  drove  him  down  the 
long  hill  to  Lambe's  villa  were  of  an  exceedingly  devo- 
tional nature. 

"Let  me  see,"  reflected  Donna  Mabel  aloud,  "how 
long  is  it  since  you  saw  your  Super  girl?" 

"Five  months,"  he  answered  simply,  seeing  no 
wrong  in  the  nickname.  "They  have  been  long 
months,  too." 

"You'll  find  all  the  girls  changed.  Sylvia  is  lovelier 
than  ever,  Susan  is  more — I  don't  quite  know  how  to 
express  it — somber  is  as  near  a  word  as  any,  and  Daffy 
has  improved  in  character.  She  would  be  plainish, 
even  in  an  ordinary  family,  poor  child." 

"Yes,  she  is  certainly  not  pretty.  Good  figure, 
though,  hasn't  she  ?" 

"Y-yes;  too  thin,  but  very  upright  and  strong- 
looking.  I  never  liked  her  much.  Susan  is  the  one  I 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  169 

see  the  most  of.  She  seemed  to  take  to  me  from  the 
very  first,  you  may  remember.  She  comes  up  to  the 
villa  very  often  and  plays  to  me.  Her  music  is  won- 
derful, but  stormy — yes,  very  stormy.  I  don't  think 
she's  happy." 

"Isn't  she?"  asked  Gunning  indifferently  as  the 
pony  carriage  clattered  across  the  piazza  of  the  town. 
"I  am  sorry." 

They  turned  sharply  to  the  left  and  during  the 
rapid  passage  through  streets  so  narrow  that  a  grown 
person  could  easily  have  touched  the  houses  on  both 
sides,  the  silence  was  unbroken,  save  by  the  warning 
cry  Donna  Mabel  uttered  in  imitation  of  cab  drivers 
as  they  rounded  corners. 

"Here  we  are,  Ugolino!"  She  glanced  swiftly  at 
him  as  she  spoke.  His  sternly  set  face  was  very  pale, 
and  as  the  big  gates  swung  to  behind  them  he  bit  his 
lip  nervously. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

WHILE  Gunning  was  on  his  way  to  his 
mother's  house  that  afternoon  Susan 
Lambe  was  walking  all  by  herself  along 
the  road  leading  south  from  Sorrento. 
This  in  itself  was  an  unusual  circumstance,  and  that 
something  had  just  happened  or  was  just  about  to 
happen  was  evident  from  the  expression  on  the  girl's 
face. 

She  had  developed  and  matured  in  the  year  that 
had  elapsed  since  she  came  to  Italy  as  if  the  warm 
sun  had  ripened  her,  and  she  was  now  a  strikingly 
handsome  young  woman,  rather  than  a  pretty  girl, 
although  she  was  only  eighteen. 

She  wore  a  short  dark  skirt  and  a  well-cut  white 
silk  shirt  and  a  mannish  Panama  hat,  and  she  walked 
very  swiftly  along  the  dusty  sunburnt  road. 

The  heat  wilted  Sylvia  and  made  her  sleepier  than 
usual.  It  stimulated  Susan. 

After  about  half  an  hour  of  rapid  motion  she  came 
to  a  path  leading  directly  to  the  sea.  At  the  foot  of 
the  path,  which  was  very  narrow  and  diversified  by 
steps  every  now  and  then,  was  a  small  bay  from  which 
extended  into  the  water  an  iron  pier.  Off  the  end  of 
the  pier  a  long  white  auxiliary  yacht  was  moored. 

It  was  very  warm  indeed  close  to  the  tideless  sea, 
170 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  171 

and  the  only  human  being  in  sight  was  a  fisherman, 
who  lay  on  the  sand  on  his  face,  sound  asleep. 

Susan  hesitated,  then  opening  a  rose-colored  para- 
sol that  she  had  brought  with  her,  walked  slowly  past 
the  sleeper  across  the  sands. 

When  she  reached  the  rocks  that  barred  her  further 
progress  she  stood  looking  seaward  from  under  the 
fringe  of  her  parasol.  The  yacht  lay  on  the  bright 
water  like  a  painted  ship ;  not  a  sign  of  life  on  her. 

Slowly  Susan  walked  back  to  the  pier  and  again 
paused.  The  heat  was  terrific  and  even  she  began  to 
feel  it. 

However,  she  had  come  for  a  set  though  vague  pur- 
pose and  meant  to  accomplish  it  if  it  proved  accom- 
plishable. Back  she  went,  twirling  the  parasol  as  if 
she  were  trying  to  attract  some  one's  attention.  When 
she  again  stood  by  the  pier  the  fisherman  awoke  and 
rolled  over. 

"Buon  giorno,"  she  said  politely,  "I  hope  I  didn't 
disturb  your  siesta." 

The  man  smiled  courteously  and  sat  up. 

"No,  signora — but  you — you  do  not  feel  the  heat? 
It  is  bad  enough  for  us  others,  but  for  you — " 

"I  like  heat,"  she  returned  carelessly,  "and  am  used 
to  it.  I  thought  it  might  be  cooler  here." 

"But  no,  at  this  time  it  is  hottest  of  all  close  to  the 
sea.  My  gentleman  all  sleep  on  the  yacht." 

Susan  looked  at  the  graceful  thing  at  the  end  of  the 
pier. 

"Your  signore  is  the  tall  gentleman  who  wears 
white?" 


112  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"Si,  signora.  You  know  him?"  the  man  added  with 
interest  so  very  different  from  offensive  curiosity  that 
seems  to  be  a  specialty  of  the  Latin  races. 

Susan  shook  her  head.  "No.  I  do  not  even  know 
his  name.  But  I  wish  to  see  him.  It  is  very  important 
— to  him,  not  to  me." 

The  man's  eyes  sparkled  suddenly. 

"The  signora  has  perhaps  news  of  his  dog.  Ah, 
Madonna,  but  he  will  be  glad!" 

Susan  disliked  lying,  but  she  hedged  now.  "Their 
siesta  must  be  nearly  over,"  she  said,  looking  at  her 
watch,  which  hung  from  her  neck  on  a  delicate  pearl 
chain.  "Will  you  go  and  tell  your  signore  that  I 
wish  to  speak  to  him  ?" 

Calmly  she  eyed  the  astonished  fisherman,  knowing 
well  that  a  show  of  unquestioned  authority  usually 
attains  its  end. 

"But,  signora,  I  tell  the  Signor  Duca  anything? 
I  am  only  old  Benvenuto  the  fisherman ;  I  do  not  be- 
long to  the  yacht.  Something  is  wrong  with  the 
yacht's  dingy  and  that's  why  I  bring  the  signore  to 
and  from  the  yacht  in  my  old  Stella  d' It  alia" — he 
made  a  sign  toward  a  clumsy  red  fishing  boat  fastened 
at  the  pierhead.  "I  cannot  go  on  board  and  demand 
an  audience  with  the  Signor  Duca !" 

Susan  took  her  purse  from  her  belt. 

"No,  but  you  can  go  to  the  steward  and  tell  him 
this :  'There  is  a  lady  on  the  beach  who  must  speak  to 
the  Signor  Duca  at  once.'  Go  and  tell  him  it  is  the 
lady  he  saw  yesterday  afternoon  in  church.  That  you 
can  tell  the  steward." 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  173 

'A  ten  lire  piece  flashed  in  her  open  palm  and  Ben- 
venuto  il  Pescatore  drew  a  deep  breath. 

"Ebbene,  signora,  I  will  go.  The  steward  may 
tell  me  to  go  to  the  devil — your  servant! — but  I  can 
try." 

Susan  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  pier. 

"Go  at  once  and  when  I  have  seen  the  steward  with 
you  on  the  deck  I  shall  know  you  have  done  what  I 
told  you  and  you  shall  have  the  money." 

The  man  smiled  in  unwilling  admiration  of  her  pru- 
dence and  started  off*  along  the  pier,  his  red  cap  pulled 
down  over  his  eyes. 

Susan  sat  quite  still  till  she  had  seen  him  board  the 
yacht.  Then  she  walked  to  the  edge  of  the  sea  and 
stood  looking  out  over  the  water  from  a  place  whence 
from  the  yacht  she  was  plainly  visible. 

First  the  white  figure  of  the  steward  came  on  deck 
with  the  fisherman,  and  then  after  further  parley  the 
fisherman  went  down  over  the  side  and  sat  leaning  on 
his  oars.  It  seemed  that  the  Duke,  whoever  he  might 
be,  was  not  asleep,  for  Benvenuto  was  obviously  await- 
ing him. 

Presently  a  very  tall  man  came  to  the  rail  and  gazed 
eagerly  landward.  Susan  lowered  her  parasol  for  a 
moment,  but  when  he  produced  a  glass  she  again  con- 
cealed her  head  and  walked  slowly  on  toward  the 
rocks. 

When  she  peeped  through  the  parasol  fringe  on 
turning,  the  boat  had  nearly  reached  the  pier  and 
there  were  two  men  in  it. 

"Signora—" 


174  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

She  could  see  his  neat  white  flannels  up  to  the  knees, 
but  her  parasol  she  kept  obstinately  lowered. 

"May  I  not  beg  you,"  the  musical  voice  went  on  re- 
spectfully. 

Then  she  dropped  the  parasol  and  looked  up.  At 
the  acute  disappointment  in  his  face  she  burst  out 
laughing. 

"I  know,"  she  said  rapidly,  "you  hoped  it  was  my 
sister.  Well,  I  meant  you  to  think  so.  Will  you — 
will  you  come  to  the  shade  somewhere  so  that  we  can 
talk?" 

It  is  probable  that  Don  Gianf  ranco  di  Ginestra  was 
disappointed  on  seeing  that  for  whatever  reason  this 
eccentric  miss  had  sought  him,  she  was  as  indubitably 
a  lady  as  she  was  eccentric. 

True,  he  had  never  doubted  the  original  social 
standing  of  the  sisters  since  he  had  first  seen  them,  but 
on  hearing  from  his  unmoved  steward  that  one  of  the 
two  was  on  the  beach  awaiting  him,  a  faint  hope  had 
inevitably  sprung  up  in  his  mind  that  perhaps — he 
hardly  knew  what. 

He  followed  Susan  up  a  steep  path  among  olive 
trees  in  perfect  silence  and  when  she  at  last  paused, 
leaning  against  a  gnarled  silver-gray  giant  of  a  tree, 
he  bent  his  head  and  stood  waiting. 

"Will  you  tell  me  your  name?"  she  began  abruptly, 
panting  a  little  from  excitement  as  well  as  from  the 
steepness  of  the  ascent. 

"My  name  is  Gianfranco,  Duca  di  Ginestra — at 
your  service." 

"And  I  am  Miss  Susan  Lambe  of  Villa  Acquadolce." 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  175 

Restarted.    "AhP' 

Her  frankness  was  to  him  at  once  satisfactory  and 
disconcerting. 

"Yes,  and — we  did  not  see  each  other  yesterday  for 
the  first  time." 

"No.  It  was  over  a  year  ago  on  the  Dover-Calais 
boat.  I — I  had  not  forgotten,  signorina." 

Susan  studied  his  face,  which  was  an  extremely  emo- 
tional one. 

"You  mean  that  you  had  not  forgotten  my  sister 
Sylvia." 

"Sylvia,"  he  repeated  softly,  his  eyes  widening. 
"Sylvia — yes — I  mean  that.  She  is  too  beautiful  to 
forget." 

With  a  satisfied  nod  Susan  went  on  speaking. 

"Well — you  are  a  gentleman  and  I  a  lady,  so  I  will 
be  quite  frank  and  you  will  forgive  my  frankness  and . 
keep  my  confidence." 

He  bowed  in  silence.  Her  broken,  fluent  Italian 
was  very  pretty,  but  he  did  not  notice  it.  Her  voice 
might  have  been  that  of  a  crow  for  all  the  effect  it  had 
on  him. 

"Are  you  married?"  she  asked  him. 

"No,  signorina." 

"Fidanzata?" 

He  pointed  to  the  sea.  "Signorina,  I  am  not  en- 
gaged. The  blue  water  there  is  not  freer  than  I, 
thank  God." 

"Good.  Then — you  have  fallen  in  love  with  my 
sister.  She  is  twenty  years  old,  she  is  rich,  and — you 
have  seen  her.  She  has  never  been  into  society,  she 


176  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

has  never  been  in  a  city,  even,  for  more  than  a  day  at 
a  time.  She  is  a  child.  I  am  nineteen,  but  I  am 
practically  years  older  than  she.  Would  you  like  to 
— marry  her?" 

Poor  Gianfranco,  he  was  as  conventional-minded 
and  unromantic  as  most  Italians  of  his  class  and  man- 
ner of  education.  Nowadays  many  young  Italians 
have  English  or  American  blood,  which  modifies  the 
Latin  in  them  to  an  extraordinary  degree,  but  the 
Ginestra  were  pure-blooded  Italians  and  Gianfranco's 
recently  dead  parents  had  been  of  the  most  intran- 
sigent type. 

In  the  natural  course  of  events  a  wife  would  have 
been  chosen  for  him,  thirty-four  years  old  though  he 
was,  by  his  relatives,  and  he  would  have  accepted  her 
as  docilely  as  if  he  had  lived  in  the  fifteenth  century. 
A  man's  romances  are  his  own,  his  wife  is  his  family's. 

And  here  was  a  young  English  miss  offering  him 
her  sister. 

It  was  unheard  of  and  had  great  possibilities  of 
shocking  him,  but  he  was  not  shocked. 

The  reason  was  not  far  to  seek  and  the  shrewd 
Susan  had  counted  on  it  from  the  first.  He  had  seen 
Sylvia.  From  the  day  a  year  ago  when  his  eyes  first 
fell  on  her  on  the  boat  he  had  remembered  her,  and 
when  the  day  before  he  had  come  suddenly  face  to  face 
with  her  in  the  old  dusky  church  into  which  he  had 
wandered  through  sheer  lack  of  anything  more  enter- 
taining to  do,  his  heart  had  given  a  great  leap,  and 
he  told  himself  that  he  was  in  love. 

But  Susan  was  very  puzzling. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  177 

"Signorina,"  he  said  haltingly,  "you  do  me  very 
great  honor,  but — your  father,  your  mother?  And 
besides,  the  young  lady  does  not  know  me — " 

Susan  held  out  her  hand  as  a  sign  that  she  wished 
to  speak. 

"Our  mother  is  dead.  Our  father  never  objects  to 
things.  But  the  chief  point  is  this:  Sylvia  saw  you 
yesterday  and — well,  she  admired  you.  She  is  a  very 
strange  girl,  but  I  know  her  well.  We  talked  of  you 
afterward  and — Oh,  well,  I  know.  We  called  you  'The 
Corsair,'  "  she  concluded  in  English. 

When  she  tried  to  explain  to  him  what  a  Corsair 
was  she  failed  utterly,  but  he  gathered  the  impression 
that  she  meant  to  convey.  Sylvia  had  observed  him 
and  been  struck  by  him. 

His  pale  face  flushed.  "If  you  think  I  might  get 
some  one  to  introduce  me  to  your  signer  father,"  he 
began,  but  she  shook  her  head. 

"That  of  course  later,  but  I  want  her  to  see  you  at 
once.  She  is  romantic,  of  course.  All  girls  are.  And 
you,"  she  cast  a  comprehensive  gaze  over  him,  "look 
romantic,  whether  you  are  or  not." 

Ginestra  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"But  I  cannot  speak  to  her  if  I  do  not  present  my- 
self to  your  father,"  he  protested. 

Susan  stamped  her  foot.     "O  Dio !"  she  moaned. 

Gianfranco  watched  her  politely.  She  was  indeed 
very  strange.  But  in  his  way  he  was  rather  wise,  so 
he  waited.  He  was  in  love  with  Sylvia  and  the  knowl- 
edge that  she  was  well  born,  and  rich  as  well  as  beau- 
tiful, was  naturally  no  damper  to  his  ardor. 


178  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

And  when  presently  he  found  Susan  unfolding  to 
him  the  plan  she  had  made,  he  agreed  to  it  all.  She 
was  a  master  spirit  and  he  was  not,  so  he  could  follow 
her  without  any  hurt  to  his  vanity,  which  in  any  case 
was  not  very  great. 

As  they  parted  he  said  suddenly : 

"That  is  her  parasol!" 

She  laughed. 

"Exactly.  I  borrowed  it  as  a  lure!  Well,  a 
riverderci,  and  remember  what  I  have  told  you." 

"Signorina,  never  fear,  I  shall  remember !" 

Then  he  went  back  to  his  yacht  and  Susan  emerged 
a  few  minutes  later  from  the  little  olive  grove  on  to 
the  blazing  highroad. 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

WHEN  Donna  Mabel  and  her  son  arrived 
at  the  villa,  Lambe  met  them  at  the  door. 
Time  had  made  him  and  Donna  Ma- 
bel very  good  friends.     He  had  learned 
to  value  her  in  spite  of  her  bouts  of  meddlesomeness, 
and  she,  assimilating  little  by  little  the  fact  that  he 
was  utterly  unmanageable,  had  latterly  given  up  her 
attempts.     She  was  not  one  of  those  few  people  who 
give  up  a  comfortably  rooted  bad  habit,  but  she  di- 
rected what  she  quite  wrongly  considered  her  talents 
in  another  direction.     She  was  now  busy  managing  a 
young  couple  who  had  settled  near  Castellamare  and 
whose  coming  baby  afforded  great  scope  to  her  ideas. 

Lambe  shook  hands  cordially  with  his  prospective 
son-in-law,  whom  he  liked,  and  told  him  that  he  would 
find  the  girls  in  the  Poggio. 

Then  gently  but  relentlessly  he  led  Donna  Mabel 
indoors  and  removed  the  tan  colored  driving  coat  with 
which  she  had  covered  her  evening  finery. 

"They're  all  in  the  drawing  room,  except  Sylvia," 
he  said.  "No  good  in  embarrassing  her  and  Hughie." 

"I  am  sorry.    I  wished  to  see  the  meeting." 

"No  doubt  you  did,  but  you  are  not  to.  The  gods 
— meaning  myself — have  settled  otherwise.  Susan, 
here's  Donna  Mabel." 

179 


180  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

But  it  was  Daffy  who  rose  from  her  chair  in  one  of 
the  balconies  and  came  forward  to  greet  the  guest. 

"Susan  went  into  the  garden  a  minute  ago,"  she 
explained. 

Daffy  had  not  grown  much.  She  was  still  small  and 
thin,  but  her  figure,  as  Gunning  had  predicted,  was 
good,  and  her  movements  more  graceful  than  those  of 
either  of  her  sisters.  She  wore  a  well-cut  white  gown 
that  made  the  most  of  these  advantages,  and  in  her 
waistband  she  had  stuck  a  bunch  of  some  very  heavy- 
scented  white  flowers. 

"Hasn't  Hughie  come?"  she  asked  as  Donna  Mabel 
perched  on  the  balustrade  of  the  balcony. 

"Yes.    He  had  gone  to  the  Poggio  to  find  Sylvia." 

Daffy  knew  many  things  about  Donna  Mabel.  She 
knew  that  the  little  lady  adored  the  memory  of  her 
second  husband,  but  that  she  was  supposed,  neverthe- 
less, to  have  done  her  best  to  secure  a  third  one  in  the 
shape  of  Christopher  Lambe.  Daffy  almost  knew  that 
Donna  Mabel's  mental  attitude  had  been  one  of  abso- 
lute loyalty  to  her  poor  Livio,  and  that  the  projected 
marriage,  had  she  been  able  to  compass  it,  would  have 
been  entirely  one  of  convenance  and  a  longing  for 
human  companionship. 

Moreover,  the  youngest  Miss  Lambe  shrewdly 
guessed  that  her  parent  had  been  forced  to  fairly 
strenuous  measures  to  avert  the  catastrophe.  For  sev- 
eral weeks  early  that  winter,  Lambe's  face  had  been 
careworn,  his  eyes  wild,  and  he  had  been  found  con- 
cealed on  occasions  of  visits  from  his  pursuer,  in  dis- 
tant parts  of  the  garden.  Then  quite  suddenly  after 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  181 

a  long  tete-a-tete  in  the  library,  his  brow  had  cleared, 
his  mouth  again  settled  into  its  comfortable,  whimsical 
lines  and  Donna  Mabel  confided  to  Susan  (who  told 
Sylvia,  who  told  Daffy)  that  nothing  could  induce  her 
to  marry  again,  that  her  whole  heart  was  in  the  grave 
with  her  boy's  dear  stepfather. 

Donna  Mabel,  in  two  words,  was  a  valorous  fool. 
She  did  the  most  insane  things,  but  invariably  bore 
the  resultant  chastisement  with  a  calm  courage  that 
was  to  the  understanding  very  disarming. 

And  Daffy,  the  silent,  was  understanding. 

Now,  as  the  two  women  talked  in  the  unlighted 
drawing  room  she  knew  quite  well  that  Susan,  as  she 
put  it,  had  not  without  some  strong  motive  left  her, 
the  unconsidered  youngest,  to  do  the  honors.  Susan 
was  undoubtedly  "up  to  something."  Only  what  it 
was  Daffy  could  not  make  out. 

For  all  her  observation  she  was  very  young,  and 
Susan's  changed  demeanor  during  the  past  year  meant 
to  her  only  that  Susan  was  rather  nastier  even  than 
before.  Susan  had  kept  her  secret  well. 

And  as  the  second  Miss  Lambe  sped  noiselessly  over 
the  Cascade  Bridge  and  up  the  steps  to  the  northeast 
corner  of  the  Poggio,  she  was  congratulating  herself 
on  that  same  fact.  It  greatly  facilitated  the  accom- 
plishment of  her  present  plot.  Sylvia,  she  knew, 
would  be  sitting  on  a  curved  marble  garden  seat,  called 
for  obvious  reasons  the  Alma  Tadema  seat.  And  be- 
hind the  Alma  Tadema  seat  was  a  thick  group  of 
lemon  trees. 

When  Hugh  Gunning  came  marching  up  the  path, 


182  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

his  heart  on  fire  with  joy  at  seeing  his  idol,  the  idol 
was  indeed  sitting  where  Susan  had  advised  her  to  go. 

"If  you  don't  want  him  to  kiss  you  that's  the  best 
place,  for  it's  in  full  view  of  the  gardener's  cottage, 
and  besides,  it's  awfully  pretty  there." 

Sylvia,  the  docile,  had  been  reading,  but  half  an 
hour  before  had  laid  down  her  book,  a  badly  printed 
copy  of  Byron,  and  as  was  her  custom  dropped  gently 
to  sleep. 

She  wore  white  and  in  her  hair  was  an  old  gold 
fillet  of  beautiful  design,  sent  her  by  Gunning  for  her 
birthday. 

The  sound  of  his  footsteps  awoke  her  and  she  rose, 
dropping  the  book  on  the  marble  step  with  a  crash. 

Gunning  paused  for  a  moment  when  he  first  saw  her, 
and  then,  very  swiftly  and  quietly  for  such  a  heavy 
man,  rushed  to  her  and  took  her  into  his  arms.  He 
was  very  gentle,  but  he  ruffled  her  hair  and  crushed  her 
winglike  sleeves. 

"You  are  spoiling  my  frock,"  she  said  with  a  sweet 
smile,  quite  unmoved  by  his  vehemence  or  by  the  fact 
she  stated.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  love-making  bored 
her. 

"Oh,  my  dear,  my  dear,"  he  stammered,  drawing  her 
back  to  the  seat  and  sitting  down,  "forgive  me  if  I  am 
rough.  I — I  haven't  seen  you  for  so  long !" 

Sylvia's  sweetness  was  quite  unaffected.  She  was 
the  gentlest  creature  in  the  world  and  it  is  unfair  to 
blame  her  for  having  no  mind.  Gunning,  who  had  no 
idea  that  she  had  no  mind,  would  not  have  blamed  her 
for  murder,  so  perfect  was  she  in  his  eyes.  He  laid 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  183 

his  big  brown  hand  gently  on  her  two  little  ones  that 
lay  clasped  on  her  lap. 

"Sylvia,  tell  me  it's  true — true,  that  we  are  to  be 
married  in  ten  days !  I — I  can't  believe  it  somehow." 

She  smiled.  "It  is  quite  true,  silly  old  boy.  And 
now  we  must  go  in  to  dinner.  How  do  you  like  being 
anM.  P?" 

They  walked  slowly  down  the  path,  a  splendid 
looking  couple,  had  any  one  been  there  to  see  them, 
but  the  only  witness  of  their  interview  had  crept  away 
down  the  steps  and  was  speeding  back  to  the  house  by 
way  of  the  tunnel  and  the  heliotrope  garden. 

Susan  Lambe's  beautiful  face  was  none  the  less 
beautiful  for  the  unlovely  thoughts  behind  it,  and  no 
one  but  Daffy  particularly  noticed  her  entrance  into 
the  drawing  room,  which  took  place  shortly  before 
that  of  her  sister  and  Gunning. 

"Been  in  the  Cascade  Garden,  haven't  you?"  Daffy 
asked,  looking  up  from  her  music  with  an  expression- 
less face.  Susan  glanced  at  her  not  quite  pleasantly. 

"No,  what  makes  you  think  so  ?" 

"Sand  on  your  shoes,  that's  all." 

Sylvia  dutifully  kissed  Donna  Mabel's  scented 
cheek  and  they  went  in  to  dinner. 

Christopher  Lambe  had,  to  every  one's  amazement, 
done  his  duty  nobly  by  his  motherless  girls ;  late  in  the 
previous  June,  he  had  taken  them  to  Switzerland  and 
together  they  had  walked  and  climbed  and  gone  on 
lakes  in  small  and  perilous  boats.  And  only  once  had 
his  old  absent-mindedness  manifested  itself,  and  as  it 
even  then  consisted  only  of  walking  out  of  an  inn  by 


184.  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

the  back  door  and  going  home  without  them,  no  harm 
was  done. 

Once  two  young  men  had  threatened  to  attach  them- 
selves to  his  party,  but  he  speedily  disposed  of  them 
by  a  method  he  confided  only  to  Daffy,  who  for  days 
afterward  used  to  burst  into  fits  of  suppressed 
chuckles  over  it. 

Griindorf  was  a  remote  and  lonely  village  and  their 
seclusion  was  not  again  molested  all  summer. 

In  October  they  returned  to  the  villa  and  here  Syl- 
via and  Daffy  had  been  ever  since. 

Lady  Corisande,  determined  on  bringing  Sylvia  out, 
met  with  a  flat  refusal.  Sylvia  was  going  to  be  mar- 
ried and  did  not  wish  to  go  to  London.  This  amazing 
fact  was  confirmed  by  the  girl  herself,  so  there  was  no 
more  to  be  done,  but  on  Susan's  suggesting  herself  as 
second-best,  her  aunt  decided  to  accept  her  proposal 
and  away  went  Susan  to  Paris  shortly  after  Christmas 
and  thence  to  Manchester  Square  where  the  Peplows 
had  a  house. 

London  was  to  Susan's  taste  for  two  reasons.  The 
first  was  that  Hugh  Gunning  was  in  town,  the  second 
that  she  heard  much  good  music  there.  The  beautiful 
Miss  Lambe,  as  in  Sylvia's  absence  she  instantly  be- 
came, was  much  feted,  but  her  mind  was  possessed — 
almost  obsessed — by  Gunning  and  music. 

Unlike  most  young  girls,  social  distractions  had  ab- 
solutely no  power  to  turn  her  attention  from  the  man 
who  loved  her  sister  and  the  art  she  had  made  to  a 
certain  extent  hers. 

Gunning  came  fairly  often  to  Manchester  Square, 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  185 

for  he  thirsted  for  news  from  Italy  and  Sylvia's  semi- 
occasional  letters  were  far  from  satisfying. 

And  Susan  did  all  in  her  power  to  attract  him.  It 
is  always  impossible  to  say  what  any  given  person 
would  do  in  any  given  circumstances.  It  is  therefore 
out  of  the  question  to  say  what  Susan  Lambe  would 
have  done  if  Sylvia  had  loved  Hugh  Gunning. 

Without  a  doubt  Susan  loved  her  sister,  so  it  may  be 
that  she  would  have  played  fair.  On  the  other  hand 
she  loved  herself  more  than  she  loved  any  one  on  earth, 
she  was  fearless  even  before  her  own  conscience,  and 
he  enjoyed  being  with  Susan,  who  never  tired  him  with 
chatter  and  whose  music  he  loved. 

Lady  Corisande,  very  busy  herself,  noticed  nothing, 
but  Uncle  Fred  used  to  wonder.  He  distrusted  his 
niece. 

Thus  the  winter  wore  away  and  spring  came,  and 
Susan  saw  that  all  her  work  was  in  vain.  Gunning 
liked  her  but  he  adored  Sylvia. 

Then  for  a  fortnight  Susan  Lambe  dashed  comet- 
like  into  the  firmament  of  London  society,  and  all  eyes 
were  on  her.  She  dressed  well  and  in  a  style  all  her 
own,  and  her  desperate  gaiety  lured  several  men  to  a 
fall,  to  Aunt  Corisande's  mingled  pride  and  annoy- 
ance. She  was  certainly  a  strange  niece  to  chaperon, 
and  Aunt  Corisande  was  not  altogether  sorry  to  see 
the  last  of  her. 

Toward  the  end  of  May,  Gunning,  who  had  made 
two  hurried  visits  to  Sorrento  during  the  winter,  an- 
nounced that  Sylvia  had  consented  to  be  married  in 
June  or  July. 


186  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Susan  sat  at  the  piano  and  listened  quietly  without 
a  word.  But  a  few  days  later  she  went  home.  That 
night  of  his  arrival,  Gunning  who  sat  opposite  her, 
said  suddenly  after  studying  her  face  for  a  moment : 

"Aren't  you  well,  Susan  ?" 

"Perfectly,  my  dear  Hughie,  why?" 

"You  look — well,  I  don't  know — not  quite  your- 
self," he  returned  doubtfully. 

Susan  laughed,  but  in  her  mind  she  raged. 

"If  I  blow  my  brains  out  at  his  feet,"  she  thought 
furiously,  "his  one  idea  would  be  to  keep  Sylvia  from 
the  shock  of  seeing  me !" 

She  was  as  near  hate  as  love  at  that  moment. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

AT  half -past  eleven  that  night,  Susan  came 
into  Sylvia's  room  in  a  dressing  gown. 
"Sylvia,  dear,  may  I  come  in?     I  have 
such  an  awful  head.    Are  you  in  bed?" 

No,  Sylvia  was  not  in  bed.  She  had  a  way  of 
dawdling  for  an  hour  over  the  evening  rites  and  now 
she  had  not  even  taken  off  her  frock.  She  was  sitting 
on  her  balcony,  a  book  in  her  hand,  but  her  eyes  fixed 
on  vacancy. 

"Come  in,  dear.  I  am  so  sorry  your  head  is  bad. 
There's  eau  de  cologne  on  the  dressing  table.  Make 
a  cold  bandage." 

Susan  did  so  and  sat  down.  "Oh,  dear,"  she  yawned, 
"what  a  boring  evening." 

"Did  you  think  so  ?"  asked  Sylvia  simply. 

"I  most  decidedly  did,  didn't  you?" 

"No.  I  am  never  bored,  you  know.  I  thought  it 
was  all  very  pleasant." 

"Oh,  well,  you  had  your  best  beloved  with  you. 
Poor  old  Hughie,  he  certainly  doesn't  add  to  the 
gaiety  of  nations." 

Sylvia  mused  for  a  moment,  her  slow  brain  really 
striving  for  something. 

"Do  you  think  Hughie  dull,  Susan?"  she  asked. 

Susan  was  wary,  and  advanced  slowly. 
187 


188  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"My  dear  Sylvia,  what  does  it  matter  what  7  think  ? 
I'm  not  going  to  marry  him !" 

But  Sylvia,  though  slow,  was  possessed  of  a  certain 
persistency. 

"But  do  you  think  him  dull?"  she  repeated  after  a 
pause. 

"Yes  I  do,  if  you  will  have  it.  But  he's  a  dear  old 
thing,  just  the  same,  and  besides — well,  darling,  you 
aren't  over  lively  yourself,  are  you,  you  blessed  dor- 
mouse !" 

But  Sylvia  had  a  sensitive  point  and  this  touched  it. 
"Quiet  people  aren't  all  stupid,"  she  retorted,  almost 
sharply  for  her. 

Susan  was  silent. 

"Susan,  I  say,  all  quiet  people  aren't  stupid." 

"No,  according  to  Kipling  the  elephant's  the  clever- 
est of  all  beasts  and  he  is  called  'The  Silent!'  " 

Sylvia  moved  uneasily  in  her  chair.  "I  know  you 
think  Hughie  is  good  enough  for  me  because  I'm  not 
clever,"  she  declared  with  a  flash  of  vehemence.  "You 
think  I'm  too  dull  for  any  one  else !" 

"Silly  Sylvia!  That's  what  you  are,  goosie.  No; 
but  I'll  tell  you  what  I  do  think.  I  think  he  isn't 
nearly  good  enough,  nor  handsome  enough,  nor — any- 
thing. There!" 

This  was  very  soothing  to  Sylvia's  hurt  vanity  and 
she  drew  a  deep  breath  of  relief. 

"He's  very  nice,  Hughie.  And  as  I  suppose  I  must 
marry,  it's  nice  to  marry  a  real  old  friend.  He  won't 
expect  me  to  talk  much,  or  to  read  newspapers,  or  to 
stay  awake  when  I'm  sleepy." 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  189 

Susan  rose.  "No.  He'll  be  asleep  himself.  How- 
ever, never  mind  Hughie.  Are  you  very  sleepy  now, 
dear?  Too  sleepy  to  go  down  to  the  lower  terrace,  and 
get  a  little  air?  I  should  like  to,  if  you  don't  mind 
coming." 

No,  Sylvia  did  not  mind.  She  almost  never  minded 
anything. 

Susan  put  a  cloak  over  her  dressing  gown,  and 
Sylvia  took  a  long  white  scarf  and  the  two  girls  went 
quietly  downstairs  and  out  into  the  garden.  As  they 
reached  the  steps  Susan  stopped. 

"Just  listen  to  the  singing  well,  how  clearly  it 
sounds  in  the  silence !" 

The  soft  gurgling  of  the  well  at  the  breakfast  place 
in  the  pergola  sounded  almost  like  a  deep  chuckle  in 
the  night.  It  was  very  still.  Far  up  the  hill  at  the 
back  of  the  Poggio  a  nightingale  sang.  Moonh'ght 
lay  faint  on  the  sea,  but  the  sky  looked  ragged  and 
rather  threatening. 

"  'On  such  a  night  as  this,' "  said  Susan,  and  Syl- 
via smiled 

"Go  on,  from  Romeo  and  Juliet,  isn't  it?" 

Susan  corrected  her  and  recited  a  few  lines  of  the 
scene.  "I  wish,"  she  added  as  they  went  down  the 
steps,  "that  I  had  a  splendid  romantic  lover  and  that 
he  was  coming  to  meet  me  down  by  the  sea." 

"Why,  Susan !"    Sylvia  was  surprised. 

"Yes.  A  dark,  mysterious  man  with  black  eyes,  and 
an  impassioned  voice."  Mentally,  Susan  made  a  face 
at  herself,  at  her  own  words,  but  they  were  the  words 
to  arrest  Sylvia's  attention. 


190  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"Go  on,  Susan,"  she  begged  like  a  child. 

"He  should  be  dark  because  I  am  fair,  and  he  should 
have  a  secret  grief  until  he  saw  me,  of  course.  And 
he  should  have  rather  long  hair;  curly.  Heavens," 
she  warmed  up,  "how  he  would  worship  me !" 

Sylvia  twisted  one  end  of  her  scarf.  "He's  isn't  a 
bit  like  Hughie,"  she  said,  in  rather  a  troubled  voice. 

"Like  Hughie,  indeed,  I  should  think  not !  He'd  be 
like  no  one  you  ever  saw,  so  beautiful  and  so  myste- 
rious." 

"Rather  like  that  man  we  saw  in  the  church  yester- 
day. Do  you  remember,  Susan?" 

Susan  hesitated.  "In  the  church?  Oh,  yes,  I  know. 
Yes,  very  like  him.  He  is  a  Duke,  Sylvia.  Old  Mar- 
garita told  me." 

Sylvia  had  not  learned  a  word  of  Italian  during  her 
year's  stay  in  Sorrento,  so  it  was  perfectly  safe  for 
Susan  to  pretend  to  derive  her  knowledge  from  the 
lodge-keeper's  wife. 

"A  Duke,  is  he  ?  He  is  very  handsome.  Rather  like 
the  Corsair,  we  decided  last  night,  didn't  we?" 

"We  did,"  assented  Susan.  "He's  here  with  his 
yacht.  I  remember  now  to  have  seen  him  before,  by 
the  way.  On  the  boat  from  Dover  to  Calais.  He  sat 
near  us  and  stared." 

"Did  he?    I  didn't  see  him ;  I  suppose  I  was  asleep." 

"Yes,  you  were.  It's  rather  interesting  that  he 
should  turn  up  here,  isn't  it  ?" 

Sylvia  thought  it  was.  "I  wonder  if  he  has  a  secret 
grief,"  she  mused.  Then  she  yawned.  "How's  your 
head,  Susan  ?  I'd  like  to  go  to  bed." 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  191 

They  were  leaning  on  a  marble  balustrade;  behind 
them  was  the  cliff,  a  few  feet  below  them  the  sea. 

Susan  looked  seaward  in  silence  for  a  moment. 

"Oh,  Sylvia,  it's  a  good  thing  you  are  a  dormouse," 
she  burst  out,  "for  if  you  weren't,  Hugh  Gunning 
would  bore  you  to  desperation.  His  hands  are  so  big 
and  so  brown,  and  he  is  so  tiresome.  I  do  wish 
you  had  waited,  there  are  so  many  charming  men  in 
London,  or  even  here  in  Italy,  I  suppose.  However, 
it's  too  late  now.  Think  of  the  Corsair,  for  instance. 
What  if  he  came  along  and  fell  madly  in  love  with  you, 
you'd  have  to  say  you  were  sorry,  but  you'd  promised 
to  marry  Hughie !  Why  even  Aunt  Corisande  used  to 
go  out  of  the  room  when  he  came  to  see  me,  he  bored 
her  so." 

Now  Sylvia  was  simple  and  she  was  not  at  all  vain 
of  her  beauty,  but  she  had  from  ner  childhood  been 
used  to  having  the  best  of  everything.  She  did  not 
reason  about  it,  or  know  that  she  owed  this  privilege 
to  her  beauty,  but  the  fact  itself  was  very  apparent 
to  her. 

And  Hugh  Gunning,  the  adored  big  playmate  of 
their  childhood,  had  been  to  her  naturally  the  best 
thing  in  the  man  line.  She  did  not  love  him,  but  she 
would  have  been  very  annoyed  had  he  chosen  either  of 
her  sisters  instead  of  herself.  She  had  accepted  him 
as  she  would  have  accepted  the  best  of  three  bouquets 
or  three  seats  in  a  train.  He  was  the  best,  so  he  was 
for  her.  And  here  was  Susan,  the  second  Miss  Lambe, 
actually  scorning  him!  Sylvia  stirred  uneasily,  her 
little  characteristic  wriggle  of  discomfort. 


192  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"I  thought  you  liked  him,"  she  protested. 

"I  do.  I  am  very  fond  of  him.  But  he's  not  good 
enough  for  you,  and  now  it's  too  late." 

As  she  spoke,  Ginestra's  skiff  shot  round  the  rocks 
into  view. 

Sylvia  started.     "Oh,  Susan  look!" 

"One  of  the  fishermen,  I  suppose." 

"Susan,  it  isn't,  it's  him!" 

Susan  leaned  over  the  balustrade.  "The  Corsair! 
Talk  of  the — don't  let  him  see  you,  Sylvia." 

But  Sylvia  did  not  move.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on 
the  really  romantic  looking  figure  in  the  boat. 

Ginestra  pulled  in  his  oars  and  touched  a  guitar 
that  lay  in  the  boat.  Then,  very  softly,  he  began  to 
sing.  It  was  all  banal,  cheap,  theatrical.  Beyond  the 
fact  that  the  man  really  was  in  love,  it  was  too 
banal,  too  cheap,  too  theatrical  for  any  real  poign- 
ancy of  effect,  but — Susan  knew  her  audience — 
poor  Sylvia  was  enthralled.  To  her  it  appealed 
strongly. 

"Isn't  it  divine?"  she  whispered,  "how  handsome 
he  is !" 

"Superb.  And  what  a  voice.  Sylvia,  isn't  it  queer 
that  I  should  just  have  been  wishing  for — for — an 
adventure  ?" 

Sylvia  did  not  answer. 

"He  must  have  asked  who  I  was,"  went  on  Susan, 
"in  fact,  old  Margarita  said  he  stopped  and  talked  to 
her,  and  now  he's  serenading  me !" 

Sylvia's  sweet  expression  changed  suddenly  to  one 
of  childish  sulkiness. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  193 

"How  do  you  know  it's  you?" 

"Because,  oh,  now  really !  You  are  going  to  be  mar- 
ried in  ten  days  to  your  entrancing  Hughie,  no  poach- 
ing !"  Susan  was  clever,  but  Sylvia  had  a  sledge-ham- 
mer logic  of  her  own. 

"He  doesn't  know  I'm  going  to  be  married,"  she 
answered. 

"Hush,  he'll  hear  you." 

Ginestra  sang  on  and  on.  He  had  a  pretty,  light 
tenor  voice  and  used  it  fairly  well,  in  a  natural  way. 
Susan  listened  and  watched  her  sister.  She  had  suc- 
ceeded. Sylvia's  jealousy  of  possession  was  aroused. 
Ginestra  might  have  come  for  her  sister,  but  she  was 
the  eldest,  she  was  Sylvia,  and  if  she  wanted  him,  then 
he  should  have  come  for  her. 

"How  could  he  know  I  am  engaged?"  she  whispered 
sharply. 

"He  might  have  asked  Margarita,  I  suppose?" 

"He's  nice  and  tall,  too,"  said  Sylvia,  after  a 
pause.  "He  looks  like  a  Greek  God." 

This  delectable  comparison  she  had  culled  from  the 
pages  of  some  novel.  There  was  nothing  in  the  least 
Greek  about  Gianf  ranco  di  Ginestra.  Under  the  hood 
of  her  cloak,  Susan  grinned.  She  felt  very  kindly 
toward  her  sister  just  then.  Sylvia's  very  silliness 
was  endearing  in  a  way. 

That  what  she  was  doing,  if  it  succeeded,  would 
nearly  break  Hugh  Gunning's  heart,  did  not  matter 
to  her.  He  would  suffer,  she  knew,  but  in  his  pain  she 
meant  him  to  turn  to  her.  And  then,  to  do  the  girl 
justice,  there  was  nothing  in  the  world,  except  give 


194  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

him  up  and  help  him  to  be  happy  in  his  own  way,  that 
she  would  not  have  done  for  Gunning. 

If  he  had  become  suddenly  penniless,  suddenly  a 
social  pariah,  she  would  have  married  him  and  worked 
herself  to  death  for  him.  So  much  of  good  there  was 
in  her.  In  her  thoughts  she  was  comforting  him  for 
the  loss  of  Sylvia,  when  the  music  ceased  and  she  came 
to  herself  with  a  start. 

Ginestra  laid  down  his  guitar,  rose  in  the  boat,  and 
with  a  quick  movement  of  his  arm,  threw  something  up 
over  the  balustrade. 

Sylvia,  the  sluggish,  stooped  like  a  flash  and  picked 
it  up.  It  was  a  large,  fat,  crimson  rose  hardly  out 
of  the  bud. 

"Give  it  to  me,"  cried  .Susan,  as  the  boat,  its  occu- 
pant gazing  back  at  them,  sped  away  into  the  shadow. 

"I  won't  give  it  to  you,  Susan,"  Sylvia  laid  the  rose 
against  her  cheek  and  drew  away  from  her  sister.  "I 
caught  it  and  it's  mine." 

"Oh,  very  well,"  returned  Susan  with  much  majesty 
of  demeanor.  "Just  as  you  like.  But  I  must  say,  for 
a  girl  who  is  going  to  be  married  a  week  from  Thurs- 
day— I  wonder  what  your  beloved  Hughie  would  say !" 

Sylvia  followed  her  nearly  to  the  top  of  the  steps  in 
complete  silence.  Then  she  spoke  with  a  dogged  note 
in  her  voice  that  Susan  had  heard  only  once  or  twice 
in  life. 

"I  don't  care  what  'you  must  say,'  and  I  don't  care 
what  Hughie  says.  The  Corsair  meant  the  rose  for 
me,  so  it's  mine  and  I'm  going  to  keep  it." 

They  parted  without  further  conversation,  and  when 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  195 

Susan  had  locked  her  door,  she  sank  into  a  chair  com- 
pletely exhausted.  Mental  suggestion  is  a  tiring  thing 
to  exercise.  But  Susan,  though  tired  to  death,  was 
more  than  satisfied  with  her  evening's  work.  "Poor  old 
Sylvia,"  she  thought  affectionately,  "what  a  duffer 
she  is,  and  yet  what  a  dear  1" 


CHAPTER  XXV 

"  V     BATHER,  what's  the  matter?" 

LJ  It  was  the  day  following  the  serenade,  and 
Lambe  was  sitting  in  the  grotto  leading 
from  the  library  when  Daffy  came  in. 

He  started  guiltily  and  rose  from  where  he  had  been 
sitting  with  his  elbows  on  the  base  of  the  unglassed 
archways  that  were  windows  in  all  but  glass. 

"The  matter,  Daffy  ?    Nothing,  my  dear,  why  ?" 

Daffy  jumped  up  to  the  ledge,  a  rather  difficult  mat- 
ter to  her,  she  was  so  little,  and  folded  her  hands  on 
her  lap. 

"Oh,  yes  there  is,"  she  insisted,  disregarding  his 
question.  "There's  been  something  the  matter  for 
ages.  Father,  won't  you  tell  me?" 

Lambe's  face  suddenly  went  all  over  wrinkles  as  he 
smiled  at  her  and  his  small  eyes  nearly  disappeared 
like  a  face  in  a  slate  under  slashing  scratches  of  the 
pencil. 

"Good,  Daffy !  Well,  I'll  tell  you,  only  mum's  the 
word.  Go-Fever,  my  son-daughter.  A  bad  attack  of 
it."  She  nodded. 

"I  thought  so.  Well,  after  the  wedding  you  must 
call  in  the  doctors." 

"What  doctors?" 

"Dr.    Change,    assisted   by   Mr.    Distance.     Poor 
196 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  197 

father,  being  the  heavy  parent  for  so  long.  Where 
will  you  go  ?" 

Now  Lambe,  who  had  deserted  his  blameless  wife 
and  his  three  little  girls  without  a  qualm,  had  felt  as 
guilty  as  a  murderer  under  the  urgings  of  his  old  rest- 
less spirit  to  leave  even  for  a  few  months  his  three 
grown  girls.  It  may  have  been  because  he  knew  them 
better  than  he  had  known  his  wife,  or  because  he  felt 
that  the  queer  detached  pride  they  caused  him  claimed 
the  recompense  of  his  continued  presence.  He  himself 
could  not  explain  it,  but  he  had  really  struggled 
against  his  Go-Fever,  and  Daffy's  advice  was  a  great 
consolation  to  him. 

"You  don't  think  it  would  be  bad  cricket?"  he 
asked  boyishly.  "I  should  like  a — a " 

"Holiday?"  suggested  Daffy  gravely,  and  he 
nodded. 

"I  thought  a  few  months  in  the  Swedish  mountains, 
or  Canada." 

"Why  not  do  both?" 

He  thrust  out  his  lower  lip  in  conscientious  nega- 
tion. 

"Oh,  no,  I  should  be  back  by  the  first  of  November." 
And  so  it  was  settled. 

Daffy,  who  loved  her  father  much  as  some  big  boys 
love  their  mother,  patted  his  shoulder  and  then  went 
back  to  her  own  part  of  the  house  where  the  small 
Angiolino  Screach  was  waiting  for  his  daily  English 
lesson. 

It  was  a  thunderous  day,  and  the  great  heat  still  lay 
almost  like  something  visible  over  the  coast  line.  Daffy 


198  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

had  been  charged  by  her  father  to  decide  where  she 
and  Susan  and  the  unpleasing  Judd  should  spend  the 
summer.  He  had  not  suggested  their  inviting  some 
older  woman  as  a  chaperon,  but  Daffy  knew  that  this 
must  be  done,  under  penalty  of  an  incursion  of  out- 
raged aunts.  And  she  meant  to  make  this  decision,  as 
well  as  the  other,  before  the  plan  was  unfolded  to 
Susan. 

Since  the  girls  had  what  seventeen-year-old  Daffy 
called  "grown  up,"  her  relations  with  her  second  sis- 
ter had  been  marked  by  a  greater  decorum  than  hith- 
erto, but  it  was  at  best  only  an  armed  peace,  and 
meant  no  kind  of  companionship  to  either  of  them. 

"Hello,  Hughie !" 

As  she  crossed  the  hall  on  her  way  upstairs,  she 
nearly  ran  into  Gunning,  who  made  a  feint  of  leap- 
ing aside  to  avoid  her. 

"Don't  run  over  me,  you  great  clumsy  thing,"  he 
laughed,  looking  down  at  her. 

The  j  oke  was  an  old  one,  but  she  en j  oyed  it. 

"Look  here,  Hughie,  I  want  your  advice.  Only  you 
mustn't  tell  a  soul." 

He  selected  a  malmaison  from  a  bowl  that  stood  on 
the  table  and  drew  its  stem  carefully  through  his  but- 
ton hole. 

"All  right,  I  won't.    What  is  it?" 

"Well,  father  is  going  for  a  holiday,  for  one 
thing." 

Over  Gunning's  happy  face  a  quick  frown  passed. 

"A  holiday  from  what?" 

"From  us.    Don't  be  silly,  Hughie.    And  Susan  and 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  199 

I  are  to  go  somewhere,  with  some  one.  I  am  to  de- 
cide where  and  the  one." 

"H'm." 

"Yes.  Father  seems  to  think  Switzerland,  but  I'd 
rather  like  to  go  somewhere  else  for  a  change." 

She  looked  very  childish  in  her  little  blue  frock 
standing  there  in  the  big  hall. 

"One  of  your  aunts,"  he  suggested  vaguely. 

"Or  Donna  Mabel.    Do  you  think  she'd  go?" 

Donna  Mabel  was  not  greatly  beloved,  but  she  had 
certain  qualities  appreciated  by  Daffy.  For  instance, 
her  habit  of  getting  up  late  and  taking  a  long  nap 
every  afternoon." 

"Where  is  Sylvia?"  he  asked,  before  he  answered 
her  question. 

"In  the  pergola.  Well,  do  you  think  she  would — I 
mean,  do  you  think  Donna  Mabel  would  go  ?" 

They  went  out  into  the  sun  and  turned  into  the 
shade  of  the  first  pergola. 

"I  don't  know,  she  might.  But  she's  not  a  good 
chaperon,  my  mother,  she's  too  vague.  Upon  my 
word,  now  one  comes  to  think  of  it,  you  are  all  vague 
here  in  Sorrento !  I  believe  it's  something  in  the  air." 

"Father  and  Sylvia  and  I  were  born  vague,"  she 
laughed,  "but  I'm  better  than  I  used  to  be,  don't  you 
think?" 

He  stood  still  and  in  a  brotherly  way  took  her 
pointed  chin  in  his  hand  and  looked  into  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  I  do  think  so,  Daffy,"  his  voice  was  a  trifle 
sententious,  but  his  thought  was  very  kind.  "And 
better  in  other  ways,  too.  You're  a  funny  little  thing, 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 

but  I  do  believe  you  never  forgot  your — your  vow  the 
night  of  your  mother's  funeral." 

Up  her  smooth  brown  cheeks  crept  a  dark  blush. 

"Oh,  Hughie,  no,  of  course  I  haven't  forgotten  it. 
How  could  I?  It  was  so  awful  in  the  dark  in  the 
churchyard.  The  wind  howled  so  and — "  she  broke 
off  with  a  genuine  shudder. 

"Do  you  ever  tell  lies  now?"  he  went  on  down- 
rightly. 

Then  ,she  laughed.  "Yes,  sometimes,  don't  you? 
But — Oh,  Hughie,  I  do  try  and  it  gets  easier.  I  never 
tell  important  ones  now.  Funny!  It's  easier  to  tell 
the  truth  about  hard  things  than  about  quite  silly  little 
ones." 

They  walked  slowly  on,  his  head  nearly  touching  the 
tangle  of  creepers  above  it.  After  a  minute  he  asked 
her  again:  "And  are  you  still  afraid  of  things?" 

She  hung  her  head.  "Yes,  Hughie.  I  shall  al- 
ways be  a  coward.  I — I  just  can't  help  it.  When  your 
mother  drives  those  awful  ponies  down  that  awful  hill, 
I  always  have  to  get  out  and  walk.  And  if  I  try  to 
sleep  without  a  light,  I  wake  up  screaming  with  night- 
mare. It's  no  use!" 

Her  ruefulness  was  funny,  but  he  did  not  laugh. 
Instead  he  patted  her  shoulder  kindly  and  then  as  they 
reached  the  open  space  where  the  other  pergola  joined 
the  one  they  were  in,  he  changed  the  subject.  A  can- 
vas tent,  its  sides  rolled  up,  stood  in  the  breakfast 
place  now,  and  long  chairs  with  green  linen  pillows. 
The  stone  table  was  covered  with  books  and  papers.  In 
one  of  the  chairs  sat  Sylvia,  writing  a  letter. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  201 

"Another  present,  Hughie,"  she  said,  "from  the 
Vicar.  I  am  thanking  him  for  it." 

Gunning  could  not  have  looked  more  gratified  if  she 
had  announced  that  she  was  doing  a  miracle. 

"But  you  look  tired,  darling,"  he  said,  capturing 
her  left  hand. 

"My  head  aches.    It's  so  hot,"  she  answered  him. 

"Where's  Susan?"  Daffy  put  in,  opening  a  book 
and  throwing  it  down  again.  Susan's  absence  seemed 
strange  to  her. 

Since  meeting  Susan  an  hour  or  so  before  she  had 
felt  more  strongly  than  ever  that  her  second  sister  was 
up  to  something.  There  had  been  a  look  in  Susan's 
face  before  she  knew  herself  observed. 

"I  don't  know.    1  haven't  seen  her  this  morning." 

Gunning  frowned.  "Has  she  been  annoying  you, 
my  beloved?"  he  asked.  Daffy  suppressed  what  can 
only  be  termed  a  grin. 

But  Sylvia  raised  plaintive  eyebrows. 

"No,  no,  oh,  no,"  she  said  sweetly,  and  Gunning 
was  convinced  that  only  her  nobility  of  character  pre- 
vented a  revelation  of  black  crime  about  Susan.  Syl- 
via was  not  consciously  deceitful.  Susan's  deliberate 
avoidance  of  her  all  day  had  really  hurt  her,  and  she 
really  felt  the  plaintiveness  her  face  expressed. 

At  that  moment  Susan  came  down  the  dusky  thick- 
set pergola  behind  them,  and,  with  a  casual  "good 
morning,"  sat  down. 

"Anything  wrong,  Susan?" 

Gunning  looked  very  grim,  grimmer  than  he  felt, 
poor  fellow,  on  that  day  of  all  days. 


202  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"Wrong?" 

"Yes.  Sylvia  says  she  hasn't  seen  you  before  and 
it's  now  eleven  o'clock." 

Susan  arched  her  nearly  black  brows  in  comic 
amazement. 

"Dear  me,  what  a  crime!  But  why  is  it  my  crime 
more  than  hers?  I  hope  when  I  have  a  lover  he  will 
mentally  draw  and  quarter  every  one  he  fancies  is  not 
worshipping  me." 

"I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  returned  Gunning 
impatiently,  "but  you  hurt  your  sister.  She  didn't  say 
so,  but  one  could  see." 

Susan  burst  into  rather  harsh  laughter. 

"Heavens,  Hughie,  how  boring  you  are.  I  think 
I'll  go  for  a  swim.  This  is  too  dull  to  suit  me." 

She  sauntered  off,  Sylvia  watching  her. 

"Oh,  Hughie,  now  you've  sent  her  away !  You  are 
so  silly.  She'll  go  down  on  the  beach  and  bathe !" 

Sylvia  looked  at  him  reproachfully,  and  Daffy 
came  to  the  rescue. 

"If  she's  going  to  bathe,  it  stands  to  reason  she 
will  go  to  the  beach,  Sylvia !  Why  shouldn't  she  ?" 

Sylvia  bit  her  lip  and  went  on  writing.  Presently 
Susan  came  back  from  the  house,  her  bathing  dress 
and  a  cloak  over  her  arm,  and  disappeared  down  the 
steps  leading  to  the  lower  terrace  as  well  as  to  the 
beach. 

Sylvia  threw  down  her  pen.  "It  is  a  horrid  day," 
she  said  slowly.  "I  think  I'll  go  for  a  swim,  too." 

Gunning  rose.    "A  good  idea.  Come  along,  Daffy." 

But  Sylvia  shook  her  head. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  203 

"No,  don't  come,  you  two.  I — I  want  to  talk  to 
Susan." 

Gunning  looked  disappointed.  "All  right,  dear. 
But  don't  apologize  to  Susan  for  what  she's  done, 
dearest.  You  are  far  too  patient  with  her  moods  and 
she  was  very  nasty  just  now.  I  can't  understand  her 
at  all!"  As  he  spoke,  however,  his  face  cleared  and 
broke  into  a  smile  that  was  not  altogether  without  the 
lover's  fatuity. 

"Or  perhaps — yes,  poor  girl,  of  course  that's  it !  I 
am  an  ass  not  to  have  thought  of  it  before.  She's 
jealous." 

Sylvia  put  on  her  hat.  "Jealous  of  whom  ?"  she  said 
vaguely,  her  eyes  on  the  sea. 

"Why,  of  me,  of  course !  You  and  she  have  always 
been  inseparable  and — now  she  resents  your — loving 
me  best,  my  darling  angel !" 

He  had  forgotten  Daffy,  who  was  studying 
in  the  Sketch  an  edifying  page  of  plain  women 
in  hideous  attitudes,  the  golf  heroines  of  Great 
Britain. 

Sylvia  turned.  "I — I  beg  your  pardon,"  she  said, 
"I  didn't  hear  what  you  said." 

Gunning  walked  with  her  to  the  house,  and  then 
came  back  and  sat  down.  He  had  not  insisted  on  com- 
municating his  discovery  to  Sylvia.  To  him,  her  ab- 
sent-mindedness had  been,  not  rudeness,  but  a  semi- 
divine  inability  to  hear  anything  even  remotely  de- 
rogatory to  her  sister.  He  sighed  deeply  out  of  pure 
thanksgiving  and  then  began  to  read. 

Half  an  hour  later  Daffy  heard  footsteps  coming 


204  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

from  the  house,  and  looking  up  saw  old  Father 
Gregorio,  the  parish  priest,  accompanied  by  a 
stranger. 

"I  say,  Hughie,  here's  Father  Gregorio.  I  do  hope 
he's  sober,  poor  old  dear.  And  who's  the  other  man? 
I've  seen  him  somewhere." 

Before  the  two  callers  were  within  whisper-shot,  she 
added  hastily,  "Oh,  /  know.  It's  the  man  who  gave 
me  the  wrong  bag,  do  you  remember?  That  day  at 
Calais !" 

Father  Gregorio  introduced  his  "friend,"  the  Sig- 
nor  Duca  di  Ginestra.  He  had  come,  the  old  priest,  to 
see  il  Signer  Lamb-a  on  business.  He  had  hopes  of 
arranging  for  the  Signor  Lamb-a  the  purchase  of  the 
peasant  Carelli's  little  olive  orchard,  and  the  Signor 
Duca  having  expressed  a  desire  to  make  the  acquaint- 
ance of  the  Signor  Lamb-a,  here  they  were ! 

Daffy  rang  for  wine  and  sweets,  and  as  the  old 
priest  had  counted  on  finding  him  here  at  his  usual 
place  and  had  not  asked  for  him  at  the  house,  Screach 
was  told  to  inform  his  master  of  the  arrival  of  guests. 

Ginestra,  very  handsome  indeed  in  his  gay  yachting 
clothes,  admired  the  garden,  but  tremendously  he  ad- 
mired. And  the  signorina  liked  it?  And  the  sig- 
norina  was  not  lonely  in  Sorrento  ?  She  had  no  broth- 
ers to  amuse  her?  No  sisters? 

Daffy  liked  him  and  at  once  reminded  him  of  the 
adventure  of  the  bag.  They  all  laughed  a  great  deal 
over  the  account  of  the  sequel. 

Presently  up  the  steps  came  the  sound  of  voices  and 
Sylvia  and  Susan,  wrapped  in  large  burnous  like  man- 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  205 

ties  of  Turkish  towelling,  appeared  under  the  pergola, 
their  long  hair  dripping  wet. 

Ginestra,  who  sat  facing  them,  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Your  sisters  ?"  he  murmured  to  Daffy. 

Gunning  hastened  forward  to  warn  the  girls  of  the 
presence  of  a  stranger,  but  in  some  inexplicable  way 
he  stumbled  over  Ginestra's  foot,  and  narrowly  es- 
caped a  heavy  fall,  and  as  he  recovered  himself  he 
found  Sylvia  standing  alone,  just  within  the  lacy 
shadow  of  the  pergola.  "Oh!"  she  said.  Then  she 
turned  and  followed  Susan. 


CHAPTER   XXVI 

LATER,  in  recalling  that  week,  Daphne 
Lambe  always  felt  vaguely  to  blame  in  that 
she  had  not  seen  the  coming  of  the  catas- 
trophe. She  had,  she  remembered,  been  in- 
distinctly conscious  of  a  something  in  the  atmosphere, 
but  she  had  not  connected  it  with  Susan. 

She  had,  however,  felt  for  some  time  that  Susan 
would  bear  watching,  so  she  did  not  give  a  thought  to 
Sylvia,  who  indeed,  to  all  of  them  but  Susan,  seemed 
quite  her  usual  self. 

The  house  was  unusually  gay,  for  Lambe  liked  the 
rather  solemn  Italian,  and  invited  him  repeatedly  to 
dine  and  lunch. 

Then  there  was  a  three  hours'  drive  along  the  coast, 
to  a  town  on  the  Gulf  of  Salerno,  where  they  lunched, 
and  a  dinner  at  Donna  Mabel's.  And  in  all  these  mild 
festivities  Ginestra  took  part  as  a  matter  of  course. 

"He  seems  to  like  Susan,"  Gunning  remarked  once 
to  Daffy. 

"He  seems  to  look  more  at  Sylvia." 

"Ah,  but  who  wouldn't?  That's  natural  enough. 
But  he  often  talks  to  Susan,  you'll  notice." 

Daffy  wished  Ginestra  would  fall  in  love  with  Susan, 
and  she  said  so.  "Then  I  could  have  father  all  to  my- 
self," she  explained,  and  Gunning  understood.  He  dis- 

306 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  207 

trusted  foreigners  as  husbands,  as  most  Englishmen 
do,  but  Ginestra  was  undoubtedly  a  man  of  good 
standing  and,  in  spite  of  his  curls  and  his  pallor,  there 
was  no  denying  his  good  looks,  and  a  certain  stiff 
charm  that  was  his. 

"I  saw  them  walking  in  the  Cascade  Garden  after 
dinner  last  night,"  he  reflected ;  "perhaps  it  may  come 
to  something.  She's  hard  to  please,  is  Susan.  One  or 
two  nice  fellows  seemed  to  like  her  in  London  and  she 
wouldn't  look  at  them." 

Daffy  nodded.  "She'd  make  a  goodish  Duchess, 
even  if  it  were  only  an  Italian  one." 

Meantime,  Susan,  Sylvia  and  Ginestra  were  in  the 
girls'  sitting  room  upstairs.  Susan's  bedroom  was 
between  the  sitting  room  and  the  head  of  the  uncar- 
peted  marble  stairs. 

Presently  she  went  into  her  own  room  and  closed 
the  door.  If  any  one  came  upstairs  she  could  be  back 
with  the  others  before  the  newcomer  could  reach  the 
landing  even. 

It  was  on  a  Monday,  and  the  wedding  was  to  be  on 
Thursday. 

Susan  sat  down  by  the  window  and  sniffed  at  a  bot- 
tle of  eau  de  cologne.  Time  was  short,  but  she  be- 
lieved that  success  sat  at  her  prow.  Ginestra  was 
nearly  out  of  his  mind  over  Sylvia  and  she  as  obviously 
(to  her  sister)  captivated  by  his  Byronesque  qualities. 

The  difficulty  was  that  while  Sylvia  thirsted  for  ro- 
mance, the  Italian  was,  in  matters  matrimonial,  pro- 
saic to  the  last  degree,  like  most  of  his  countrymen. 
If  he  had  proposed  carrying  the  girl  away  in  his 


208  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

yacht  to  marry  at  the  first  place  they  could  land  at, 
Susan  believed  that  her  sister  would  go. 

But  Ginestra,  who  was  a  gentleman,  knew  what  was 
due  to  those  future  children  of  his,  of  whom  he  spoke 
with  such  embarrassing  frankness  to  his  virgin  ally. 

"It  would  not  do  for  my  sons  to  know  that  their 
mother  was  on  my  yacht  for  hours  before  we  were 
married,"  he  insisted  obstinately. 

On  the  other  hand  Sylvia  would  not  hear  of  his  go- 
ing to  her  father  and  telling  the  truth,  nor  would  she 
go  herself.  Also  he  had  not  been  at  all  pleased  to 
learn  that  Sylvia's  wedding  was  only  four  days  off. 
If  he  had  been  less  deliriously  in  love  he  would,  Susan 
knew,  have  retired  from  the  field  the  moment  he  became 
aware  of  Gunning's  position. 

"It  is  dishonorable,  ah,  yes,  but  very,"  he  declared, 
ruffling  his  glossy  curls.  "If  I  were  not  a  coward,  I 
should  go  away " 

"Then  go,"  Susan  told  him  more  than  once.  "Syl- 
via likes  you  as  much  as  she  is  capable  of  liking  any 
one,  but  it  won't  break  her  heart,  for  the  best  of 
reasons ;  she  also  likes  Gunning.  She  will  soon  forget 
you." 

But  the  vision  of  Sylvia  forgetting  him  in  Gun- 
ning's arms  was  too  much  for  Ginestra,  and  he  stayed 
on.  His  always  mournful  face  now  stood  him  in  good 
stead,  for  no  one  noticed  his  gloom,  his  face  being, 
one  may  say,  expressionless  from  too  much  expression. 

And  now  Monday  was  nearly  over. 

Susan  sniffed  at  her  eau  de  cologne.  Her  hair, 
nearly  as  golden  as  Sylvia's,  was  of  a  different  quality. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  209 

Whereas  Sylvia's,  these  very  warm  days,  hung  in 
limp,  silky  little  ringlets  round  her  face  and  neck, 
Susan's  curled  fiercely  up,  and  grew  drier  and  almost 
metallic,  like  extremely  fine  wire.  She  did  not  get  the 
blenched  look  of  most  foreigners  in  a  hot  southern 
summer.  As  she  sat  alone  in  her  room,  her  intent  face 
was  an  interesting  study. 

Time  passed  and  no  one  came  upstairs. 

The  air  was  full  of  the  music  of  very  distant  chil- 
dren's voices  and  the  laughter  of  fishermen  on  the  vil- 
lage beach.  The  comparative  coolness  of  evening  had 
come,  and  the  people  had  emerged  from  their  darkened 
houses  for  a  little  air. 

Presently  Susan  rose,  and,  listening  intently  for  a 
moment  at  the  door  leading  into  the  sitting  room, 
went  in.  Sylvia  was  sitting  near  a  window  and  Gines- 
tra  stood  by  her. 

"Signorina,"  he  began  abruptly  as  Susan  entered, 
"you  must  make  her  understand.  I  say  I  love  her,  and 
she  loves  me."  There  was  none  of  poor  Gunning's 
humility  in  the  Corsair's  manner.  "I  tell  her  then, 
per  consequenza,  the  only  thing  is  for  me  to  go  ancl 
tell  your  Signor  Padre,  and  then,  if  it  is  Signor  Gun- 
ning's wishes  to  have  a  shot  at  me,  I  am  ready." 

Sylvia  was  crying  now ;  that  is  to  say,  large  drops 
of  water  were  welling  slowly  from  her  eyes  and  rolling 
down  her  undistorted  face. 

"I  don't  want  Hughie  to  shoot  him,"  she  said,  turn- 
ing to  her  sister  helplessly.  Since  Ginestra's  first  word 
alone  with  her,  Sylvia  had  returned  to  her  old  alle- 
giance to  Susan. 


210  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"Bosh,  can  you  imagine  Hughie  doing  anything  so 
— so  exciting?  Don't  be  a  goose,  Sylvia." 

"But  poor  Hughie  will  be  miserable." 

"For  a  day  or  two.  He's  not  the  kind  to  waste  much 
time  in  repining.  Besides,"  Susan  went  on  gently, 
"if  you  marry  him,  think  of  poor  Ginestra !" 

Ginestra  sketched  despair  with  his  hands. 

"I  will  not  live,"  he  declared  firmly,  "if  I  lose  you." 

This  kind  of  talk  Sylvia  thoroughly  enjoyed.  She 
raised  her  dripping  eyes  to  his  with  more  feeling  in 
them  than  Susan  had  suspected  her  of  possessing. 

"Oh,  Gianfranco,"  she  wailed. 

Susan  nearly  despaired.  They  were  both  obstinate, 
both  idiotic,  both  maddeningly  unpractical.  Susan 
sighed  and  then  sat  down  and  drew  on  her  almost 
hypnotic  eloquence. 

At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  she  rose,  fairly  satisfied, 
and  was  about  to  go  downstairs  when  Gunning's 
voice  was  heard  calling  as  he  came  up  the  stairs. 

"Go  into  my  room,  Sylvia,  and  be  perfectly  quiet," 
whispered  Susan.  "I'll  say  you're  asleep." 

As  the  door  closed,  Gunning  knocked  at  the  other. 

He  was  sorry  Sylvia  was  asleep,  but  glad  for  her 
to  be  resting.  Also  he  was  glad  to  find  the  difficult 
Susan  tete-a-tete  with  the  Duke.  Perhaps  poor  old 
Daffy  would  be  granted  her  wish ! 

Susan  rose  presently.  "I  must  leave  you  now,"  she 
said,  shooting  a  warning  glance  at  Ginestra,  "I  have 
an  errand  to  do." 

The  two  men  followed  her  downstairs  and  she  went 
on  alone  into  the  town. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  211 

Don  Gregorio,  who  was  sitting  in  his  little  garden, 
was  all  excitement  as  she  unfolded  her  plan  to  him. 
Oh,  yes,  he  would  marry  them.  That  was  his  duty,  to 
marry,  to  baptize,  to  bury.  The  Signer  Lamb-a 
would  doubtless  be  angry,  but — he  shrugged  his  fat 
shoulders  and  spilt  more  snuff  on  his  dirty  soutane — 
"young  people  must  follow  their  hearts." 

He  was  a  kind  old  man  and  preached  a  very  amus- 
ing sermon,  which  is  more  than  most  priests  of  any 
sect  can  boast  of,  and  though  he  occasionally  drank 
more  black  country  wine  than  was  good  for  nim,  no 
one  minded,  and  his  prestige  was  lowered  thereby  not 
one  whit. 

Susan  told  him  at  what  hour  the  next  morn  the  lov- 
ers would  come  to  him,  praised  the  beauty  of  his  tor- 
toise-shell cat  and  his  few  garden-flowers  and  then 
hurried  home. 

Her  work  was  nearly  at  an  end.  By  noon  the  next 
day,  the  Duke  and  Duchess  di  Ginestra  would  have  left 
on  their  yacht,  and  she,  Miss  Lambe,  could  sit  down 
and  prepare  to  catch  Gunning's  heart  on  its  rebound. 

And  then  her  face  softened  beautifully,  so  that  a 
two-year-old  baby,  sitting  in  a  ground  floor  window, 
held  out  its  little  arms  to  her  and  cooed  in  response. 
Then  how  happy  she  would  make  him !  -How  she  would 
care  for  him,  anticipate  his  wishes,  worship  him. 

And  the  presence  of  the  yacht  made  things  so  sim- 
ple. Sylvia  would  be  gone  before  any  one  knew,  so 
there  would  be  no  scenes,  no  reproaches.  Susan  was 
very  glad,  for  in  spite  of  her  steel-spring  nerves,  she 
was  tired.  Her  task  had  not  been  easy. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 

But  now  it  was  nearly  over.  Before  she  went  down 
to  dinner  she  looked  from  her  balcony  off  seaward  to 
the  left,  where  the  yacht  lay.  She  felt  positively  grate- 
ful to  the  graceful  craft. 

But,  like  all  managing  people,  Susan  made  one  mis- 
take. She  forgot  that  others,  beside  herself,  were  pos- 
sessed of  active  impulses.  In  her  mind  Sylvia  and 
Ginestra  were  puppets  in  her  hands ;  she  did  not  con- 
sider the  possibility  of  circumstances  urging  either  of 
them  to  activity  and  yet  this  is  what  happened. 

Some  time  after  dinner,  Gunning  asked  Sylvia  to 
walk  with  him  to  the  Poggio.  The  others  sat  on  the 
terrace,  chatting  or  watching  the  moonlit  sea.  It  was 
cool  now,  and  delightful  after  the  heat  of  the  day. 

Susan,  keeping  an  eye  on  Ginestra,  who  was  the 
only  moody  one  of  the  group,  rested  quietly  in  her 
chair,  again  thinking  gratefully  of  the  yacht. 

Then  back  across  the  lawn  came  Sylvia  and  Gun- 
ning. They  were  not  talking,  but  when  they  reached 
the  shadow  of  the  house,  he,  thinking  they  were  in- 
visible from  where  the  others  sat,  bent  and  kissed 
her. 

Ginestra  rose,  an  oath  half  suppressed  between  his 
teeth.  Then,  as  Susan  too  rose  and  tried  to  lead  him 
away,  he  drew  aside  from  her. 

"I  beg  you,  signorina,"  he  said  hoarsely. 

Every  one  looked  at  him  and  when  Sylvia  and  Gun- 
ning reached  th*em,  he  spoke. 

"Signor  Gunning,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that  was  sud- 
denly quiet  and  clear,  "may  I  have  a  word  with  you  ?" 

"Certainly,"  assented  Gunning,  surprised. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  213 

But  before  the  Italian  could  carry  out  nis  perfectly 
dignified  plan,  Sylvia  gave  a  little  scream  and  flew  to 
Gunning. 

"Hughie,  Hughie,"  she  cried,  clasping  his  arm 
tightly,  "you  won't  shoot  him  ?  Promise  me  you  won't 
shoot  him !" 

Her  face  was  perfectly  white  in  the  moonlight,  and 
she  was  frantic  with  fear. 

"Shoot  him?  Who?"  the  Englishman  asked  stu- 
pidly. "Don't  be  frightened,  dear." 

"Signor  Lamb-a,"  interrupted  the  Italian,  "it  is 
this :  I  love  your  daughter  and  she  loves  me." 

There  was  a  pause,  broken  only  by  the  sound  of 
Sylvia's  hysterical  sobs.  Then  Ginestra  went  on  with 
his  exquisite  courtesy  to  Gunning. 

"I  am  quite  at  your  service,  signore." 

Gunning  did  not  answer  for  a  moment,  but  stood 
with  his  hand  on  Sylvia's  hair. 

"Is — this — true?"  he  began,  and  then,  correcting 
himself,  "I  beg  your  pardon,  Duca,  of  course  it  is 
true.  Sylvia,  go  and  stand  by  him." 

He  pushed  her  gently  toward  the  other  man. 

"Go,  my  dear,  if — as — you  love  him.  And  you 
need  not  be  afraid.  I  shall  not  shoot  him." 

Christopher  Lambe  had  not  moved.    Now  he  rose. 

"Hughie,"  he  said,  "I — I  am  ashamed  of  my  daugh- 
ter. Come  into  the  house  with  me." 

Gunning  shook  his  head. 

"Thanks,  Mr.  Lambe,  I  don't  need  a  drink.  Susan, 
when  she  stops  crying,  will  you  tell  her,  that — that  it's 
all  right !  I'll  go  now." 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 

He  walked  rapidly  back  toward  the  house  and  they 
heard  his  footsteps  cease  suddenly  as  he  cut  off  over 
the  lawn  to  the  left  toward  the  gate. 

"He's  forgotten  his  hat,"  said  Daffy. 

Sylvia  burst  into  a  peal  of  mad  laughter  at  this.  It 
was  the  last  thing  Gunning  heard  as  he  left  the  place. 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

IT  was  characteristic  of  Christopher  Lambe  that 
his  daughter  Sylvia  was  married  the  next  morn- 
ing to  the  Duca  di  Ginestra.  The  fact  being  es- 
tablished that  Sylvia  loved  the  Italian,  there  was, 
to  his  mind,  nothing  to  do  but  allow  her  to  marry  the 
man,  who  was  perfectly  acceptable  as  a  son-in-law, 
and,  as  it  was  to  be,  the  sooner  the  better. 

This  was  his  simple  line  of  reasoning,  unfolded  by 
him  to  his  daughter  at  breakfast. 

"You  have  behaved  abominably,"  he  added  to  Syl- 
via, whose  face  bore  not  the  faintest  sign  of  the 
storm  of  the  night  before.  "I  am  thoroughly  ashamed 
of  you,  and  I  can  only  congratulate  Gunning  on  his 
escape.  But  as  you  wish  to  marry  Ginestra,  I  have 
nothing  to  say  except  that  it  must  be  at  once." 

So  good  Padre  Gregorio  had  the  greatest  shock  of 
his  life  in  perceiving  to  enter  his  sacristy  at  the  hour 
stated,  not  only  the  romantic  runaway  couple,  but  the 
the  bride's  father  and  sisters. 

Ginestra  had  his  papers  in  readiness,  there  was  no 
hitch  of  any  kind,  and  after  the  short  ceremony 
Lambe  shook  hands  with  his  daughter,  the  Duchess, 
and  he  and  the  other  girls  went  back  to  the  villa,  while 
the  young  couple  got  into  a  cab  and  were  driven  to  the 
top  of  the  lane  leading  to  the  pier. 

215 


216  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Susan  stood  at  the  dining-room  window  an  hour 
later,  while  Thomas  Screach  laid  the  table. 

"Oh,  has  my  father  told  you,  Thomas?"  she  said, 
without  turning  round,  "Miss  Sylvia  was  married 
this  morning  and  has  gone  away." 

Thomas,  who  had  greatly  increased  in  bulk  in  the 
last  years,  and  who  looked  much  like  Randolph  Calde- 
cott's  John  Gilpin,  nearly  dropped  a  plate. 

"Married,  Miss !" 

"Yes.  So  we  shall  only  be  three  at  luncheon." 

"But,  I  beg  pardon,  Miss  Susan,  but  Mr.  Gunning 
only  just  come  in  a  short  while  ago  and  is  hi  the  study 
this  very  minute." 

Susan  pointed  to  the  beautiful  white  yacht  that  was 
moving  slowly  away  toward  Naples. 

"On  that  boat,  Thomas,"  she  said,  "are  its  master, 
the  Duke  of  Ginestra  and  the  Duchess.  The  Duchess, 
until  an  hour  ago,  was  Miss  Sylvia  Lambe.  Try  not 
to  have  a  fit." 

Thomas  had  been  in  the  house  the  day  Sylvia  was 
born ;  he  had  carried  all  three  children  in  his  arms ;  he 
considered  himself  almost  a  member,  although  a  hum- 
ble member,  of  the  most  important  and  eye-filling 
family  in  the  world. 

For  a  minute  he  was  silent.  Then,  as  he  left  the 
room,  he  turned. 

"Thank  you  for  telling  me,  Miss  Susan." 

When  he  had  nearly  closed  the  door  he  re-opened  it 
a  little  and  put  his  wide,  red  face  into  the  crack. 

"I'm  afraid  poor  master  must  feel  it,"  he  murmured. 
Then  he  retired.  He  had  the  feelings  of  a  gentleman, 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  217 

had  Thomas  Screach,  and  to  him  was  vouchsafed  the 
knowledge,  withheld  from  his  young  mistress,  that 
Lambe  would  naturally  be  ashamed  of  his  eldest  girl's 
behavior. 

Susan  shrugged  her  shoulders.  Screach  and  his 
opinions  did  not  interest  her. 

What  did  interest  her  was  the  fact  that  Hugh 
Gunning  was  even  then  in  the  house. 

She  longed  to  see  him,  and  yet  she  feared  to.  After 
hesitating  for  some  minutes  she  went  swiftly  upstairs 
and  locked  herself  in  her  bedroom. 

She  knew  that  he  was  suffering  and  she  could  not 
see  his  pain,  not  because  it  was  pain,  but  because  of 
the  torments  of  jealousy  it  would  cause  herself. 

In  the  study,  meantime,  Lambe  and  Gunning  sat 
opposite  each  other  by  the  window. 

Gunning  was  not  pale,  but  his  face  looked  as  if  it 
had  suddenly  been  hardened  into  a  new  mold.  It  was 
now  a  stern,  cold  face,  devoid  of  youth  and  of  hope. 
To  Lambe  it  was  dreadful. 

"It's  very  fine  of  you  to  take  it  like  this,"  Lambe 
said,  lighting  a  cigarette  as  he  broke  a  long  silence. 

Gunning  laughed.  "What  else  could  I  do?  She 
loves  him,  and — that's  all.  I'm  glad  they  were  mar- 
ried at  once." 

"Yes — I  knew  you'd  understand  my  hurrying  it 
on.  I — well,  frankly,  Hughie,  I'm  not  so  strong  as 
you ;  I  couldn't  have  stood  seeing  them  about.  It's  a 
relief  to  have  them  out  of  the  way.  I — it  is  unpleas- 
ant to  be  ashamed  of  one's  own  flesh  and  blood." 

"Don't  be  hard  on  her,  sir.     She's  very  young  and 


218  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

I  am  not  an  attractive  fellow.  He  is.  Besides,  he 
seems  quite  all  right." 

"Oh,  yes ;  he's  right  enough.  We  had  a  long  talk 
last  night.  He  didn't  care  a  blow  about  the  settle- 
ment, which,  of  course,  is  exceptional." 

Gunning  winced.  His  settlements,  giving  his  future 
wife  half  his  income  for  her  own  for  his  life,  and  every- 
thing he  had  in  the  world  in  the  event  of  his  death, 
were  already  drawn  up.  He  recalled  signing  them 
in  the  dusty,  musty  room  in  Bedford  Row,  and  the 
memory  of  his  exultant  happiness  that  day  cut  him 
like  a  knife. 

"From  the  little  I  saw  of  him  I  should  say  he  was  a 
very  decent  chap.  He  also — cares  very  much  for  her. 
If  he  hadn't  he — he  couldn't  have  done  what  he  did. 
I  suppose  she  was  afraid  to  let  him  tell " 

"Oh,  obviously,"  agreed  her  father  dryly,  "if 
he  hadn't  lost  his  head  we  should  have  been 
favored  with  a  moonlight  flitting.  She  is  a  coward — 
Sylvia." 

Gunning  rose.  "Well — I  must  get  back  up  the  hill. 
I  shall  stay  another  week  with  my  mother ;  she  is  very 
much  upset.  Then  I  shall  go  back  to  England.  I'll 
see  you  again  before  I  go " 

They  shook  hands  and  Christopher  Lambe  longed 
for  words  in  which  to  express  his  regret  for  what  his 
daughter  had  done  and  his  admiration  for  the  bravery 
with  which  the  younger  man  was  accepting  the  blow. 
But  no  words  came  and  they  parted  in  silence. 

In  the  hall,  as  Gunning  went  out,  Screach  and  the 
young  footman  were  superintending  the  unloading  of 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  219 

a  cart  from  the  station ;  large  wooden  cases  stood  on 
the  steps  and  another  was  still  in  the  cart. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Gunning" — poor  Screach  tried  to  be  his 
usual  self  and  to  look  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  the 
cases  contained  gifts  for  a  wedding  that  would  never 
take  place.  But  he  had  known  Gunning  for  many 
years  and  the  young  man  had  always  been  kind  to  him. 

"Oh,  Mr.  Gunning " 

Hugh  tried  to  smile.  "Never  mind,  Thomas — I 
understand.  Just  let  me  by,  will  you?" 

"If  ever,"  declared  Screach  to  himself,  but  aloud 
as  he  disappeared  down  the  drive,  "I  see  a  broken 
'eart,  there  goes  one  now."  Then  he  swore  very  vio- 
lently at  the  clumsy  carrier. 

That  afternoon  Susan  Lambe  drove  up  the  long 
hill  in  a  fly  and  got  out  at  Donna  Mabel's  villa. 

It  was  raining  and  Donna  Mabel  was  in  the  draw- 
ing room,  moving  restlessly  about,  gazing  often  at 
the  pictures  of  her  late  husband,  opening  and  closing 
the  windows,  beginning  letters  and  tearing  them  up, 
and  often  pausing  to  listen  for  the  sounds  that  occa- 
sionally came  from  the  room  above. 

She  had  cried,  poor  lady,  and  her  complexion  was 
streaked  and  blotched. 

When  Susan,  trim  and  shipshape  in  a  new  linen 
frock,  came  in,  Donna  Mabel  burst  into  tears  again. 

"Oh,  Susan  Lambe,  aren't  you  ashamed  to  show 
your  face  to  me  ?"  she  cried,  even  while  she  reached  up 
to  kiss  her  caller. 

Susan  straightened  a  scrap  of  lace  on  her  hostess's 
disheveled  head. 


220  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"No,  dear  Donna  Mabel,  I'm  not.  7  haven't  jilted 
Hughie.  You  know  how  much  I  love  him,  so  you  must 
realize  how  sorry  I  am  for  him.  But  you  don't  know 
Sylvia,  so  you  can't  realize  how  utterly  helpless  I 
was!" 

"Helpless  ?    Then  you  knew  ?" 

Susan  sat  down.  "Of  course  I  did — ten  days  ago. 
He  told  me !  I  had  to  promise  not  to  tell,  so  I  couldn't. 
Besides — well,  I'm  sure  that  after  the  first  shock  poor 
old  Hughie  will  find  he's  well  out  of  it !" 

"His  heart  is  broken,"  protested  his  mother.  "He 
will  never  get  over  it." 

They  sat  there  in  the  pretty,  shady  room  listening 
to  the  beating  of  the  long-wished-for  rain,  and  little 
by  little  Susan  succeeded  in  convincing  Donna  Mabel 
that  Hugh  had  had  a  lucky  escape. 

"I  never  realized  that  she  was  quite  so — so  empty- 
headed,"  she  faltered,  for,  after  all,  had  not  her  won- 
derful son  adored  the  empty-headed  one? 

Susan  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"Sylvia  has  never  had  one  single  idea  since  the 
day  she  was  born,"  she  declared  gently.  "You  know 
that  I  love  her,  but  I  have  lived  too  intimately  with 
her  not  to  know  that.  Hugh  would  have  found  it  out 
and  she'd  have  bored  him  to  death.  I  am  sure  of 
this." 

Donna  Mabel  blew  her  nose.  "I  can't  understand 
it.  You  are  clever,  why  should  she  be  so — so  queer?" 

Susan  kissed  her.  "7'ra  not  clever,  dear  Donna 
Mabel,"  she  protested  prettily,  "it's  only  that  you 
happen  to  be  fond  of  me  that  makes  you  think  I  am. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 

But  Sylvia,  poor  beautiful  darling — and  no  one  knows 
better  than  I  how  sweet  and  dear  she  is — she  is  really 
almost  abnormal.  Her  brain  simply  doesn't  work. 
And  Hughie  never  saw  it.  I  never  saw  Sylvia  in  the 
least  interested  in  anything  until  this  man  came  along. 
She  is  in  love  with  him.  And  I  hope  he  will  wake  her 
up." 

"She  is  a  wicked,  wicked  girl  and  doesn't  deserve 
to  be  happy " 

"Ah,  please,  Donna  Mabel !  Don't  be  cruel  to  me. 
I  have  told  you  all  this,  that  I  never  before  told  a 
living  soul,  because  I  thought  it  might  console  you 
for  Hughie's  loss,  but — you  must  remember  she  is  my 
sister,  and  I  love  her." 

As  she  finished  speaking  the  door  opened  and  Gun- 
ning came  in. 

"Did  I  leave  my  fountain  pen — "  he  began  and 
broke  off.  "Oh,  is  that  you,  Susan  ?"  He  held  out  his 
hand,  and  hers,  as  she  took  it,  was  so  cold  that  he 
looked  at  her  pityingly. 

"You  look  tired,"  he  said.  "Give  her  some  tea, 
mother." 

Suddenly  a  strange  thing  happened  to  Susan.  Her 
long  strung-up  nerves  gave  way  with  a  crash,  as  it 
were,  and  she  burst  into  a  fit  of  dry  sobbing.  If  her 
life  had  depended  on  it  she  could  not  have  stopped, 
but  if  she  had  feigned  the  breakdown  it  could  not  have 
been  better  timed. 

Gunning  laid  his  arm  over  her  shoulders  and  drew 
her  to  him.  "Poor  old  girl,"  he  said  soothingly. 
"Don't  do  that!  Come,  come,  Sukey." 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Still  sobbing  hysterically,  but  with  dry  eyes,  she 
looked  up  into  his  stony  face.  For  a  moment  she 
studied  it  and  then  for  the  first  time  real  pity  for  him 
touched  her,  and  the  tears  came. 

He,  of  course,  took  her  emotion  to  mean  sympathy 
and  regret  mingled,  and  he  was  moved  and  surprised 
by  it.  He  held  her  gently  in  his  arms  as  a  brother 
might  have  done,  and  even  in  her  nervous  state  it 
was  an  exquisite  thing  to  her  to  have  her  head  on  his 
breast. 

When  at  last  she  drew  away  he  lent  her  his  hand- 
kerchief and  she  wiped  her  eyes,  half  laughing. 

"Oh,  Hughie,  to  think  that  I  should  be  such  an 
idiot!" 

"Never  mind,  Susan ;  after  all,  you  aren't  very  old, 
and — last  night  was  pretty  bad  for  us  all,  wasn't  it?" 

Donna  Mabel  had  gone  out  on  the  terrace  to  see 
if  the  sudden  cessation  of  rain  meant  a  fine  evening 
or  was  merely  a  trick  of  the  weather. 

"Hughie — do  you  really  care  so — so  dreadfully 
much?"  Susan  looked  away  as  she  spoke. 

There  was  a  long  pause  and  then  he  gave  a  half 
laugh. 

"Do  I  care,  Susan  ?  Why,  she  was  to  have  been  my 
wife  by  this  time  the  day  after  to-morrow.  And — I 
never  cared  for  any  other  woman  in  my  life.  So 
there's  an  end  to  that.  Let's  not  discuss  it.  I  am 
not  angry,  and  I  hope  I'm  not  bitter,  but  I  can't  talk 
about  it." 

He  followed  his  mother  to  the  terrace  and  shortly 
afterward  went  upstairs  again. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  223 

Susan  did  not  see  him  again  for  many  months,  but 
she  was  wise  and  bided  her  time  without  impatience. 
He  did  not  come  again  to  the  villa  and  none  of  the 
family  saw  him  again  except  Daffy,  who  alone  of  the 
three  would  have  let  him  go  without  an  effort  to  have 
a  word  with  him. 

On  the  Thursday  that  was  to  have  been  the  wed- 
ding day  Daffy  was  alone  in  the  Poggio  after  dinner. 
The  moon  was  waning,  but  the  night  was  clear  and 
from  the  Alma  Tadema  bench  the  sound  of  the  cas- 
cade made  music  in  the  still  air. 

The  girl  sat  quite  quietly  on  the  marble  seat,  her 
head  leaning  back  against  its  low  curved  back,  so 
that  she  looked  through  the  trees  into  the  sky. 

She  was  thinking  about  Hugh,  as  she  had  been 
thinking  without  ceasing  for  the  past  three  days,  and 
when  she  heard  footsteps  at  some  distance  off  on  the 
gravel  path  she  seemed  to  know  that  it  was  he. 

The  footsteps  stopped  and  she  sat  up  straight  and 
looked  for  him. 

He  stood  near  one  of  the  Poggio's  most  beautiful 
treasures,  the  one  the  site  for  which  Lambe  had  de- 
cided, she  knew,  the  very  day  the  Bishop  had  brought 
her,  so  long  ago. 

It  was  a  kind  of  memorial  stone,  beautifully  and 
richly  carved  on  four  sides,  and  Daffy  knew  the  in- 
scription by  heart. 

She  wondered  why  Gunning  was  kneeling  by  it 
now.  But  she  did  not  move,  her  little  figure  in  its 
filmy  gray  gown  being  quite  unnoticeable  to  him  as 
he  knelt. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Presently  he  rose  and  came  slowly  toward  her. 

"Ah,  Daffy " 

She  rose  and  they  shook  hands  rather  formally. 

"I  didn't  expect  to  find  you  here,"  he  went  on,  sit- 
ting down  as  if  he  were  very  tired.  "I  didn't  go  to 
the  house " 

"I'll  not  mention  it,"  she  returned  promptly. 

"I — I  came  to  do  a  rather  childish  thing,"  he  went 
on  after  a  pause.  "The  bridal  bouquet  arrived  from 
England  this  morning — it  was  a  fancy  I  had — and — 
well,  come,  little  Daffy,  and  I'll  show  you."  His  hand 
as  he  took  hers  was  very  hot. 

They  walked  in  silence  back  to  the  beautiful  broken 
pedestal  and  she  saw  at  the  foot  of  it  a  mound  of 
freshly  moved  soil. 

"It's — it's  the  bouquet,"  Gunning  explained  labori- 
ously, "it  was  ordered  for  the  wedding,  you  see,  and 
it  has  served  at — a  burial  instead " 

Poor  cowardly  Daffy,  she  was  frightened  to  death, 
his  voice  was  so  strange. 

"Hughie,  come  to  the  house  and  rest  awhile.  Father 
will  be  so  glad  to  see  you — he  is  so  fond  of  you." 

"Ah,  yes,  you  are  all  fond  of  me,  aren't  you?  Par- 
ticularly Sylvia." 

He  knelt  down  and  she  knelt  with  him. 

"Can  you  read  this?"  he  asked  suddenly,  in  a  per- 
fectly natural  voice. 

"Yes — I  can  read  it,"  she  faltered. 

"Read  it  to  me,  will  you?    My  head  aches  so " 

In  the  ancient  stone  most  of  the  inscription  was 
still  legible  in  its  lovely  garland  of  flowers. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  225 

"  'Mutae  Tutelae, 

"  'Sanctissimae, 

"  'Sacrime, 

"  'Hortensiae — '  "  spelled  out  Daffy,  whose  Latin 
education  was  by  no  means  comprehensive. 

"  'Conjugia  carrissimae, 

"  'Dominae  dulcissimae, 

"  'Indulgentissimae — !  "  but  at  this  point  Gunning 
interrupted  her. 

"Let  me  do  it,  dear,?'  he  said  gently,  "I'll  put  it 
into  English  for  you ;  it's  so  pretty.  I'm — I'm  going 
to  have  it  put  on  Sylvia's  grave — if  she  should  die 
first.  Listen.  This  Roman  gentleman  had  it  put  on 
this  stone  in  the  year  276.  His  wife  had  died,  you 
understand,  and  this  is  her  memorial  stone: 

"  'To  the  silent,  tutelar  Diety, 

"  'A  place  dedicated  to  the  most  sainted  Hortensia 
Ennoea,  a  most  dear  spouse,' "  he  faltered  for  a  mo- 
ment and  then  went  on  haltingly,  "  'a  most  charming, 
kind  and  devout  lady,  generously  furnished  with  an 
excellent  mind,  most  courteous,  sincere,  genial  and 
distinguished;  well  deserving  of  every  good,  a  most 
worthy  lady  with  whom  I,  Titus  Claudius  Horus,  have 
lived  a  good  life  for  very  many  years — for  very  many 
years,' "  he  repeated  vaguely.  "Do  you  like  it, 
Daffy?" 

"It  is — beautiful,  Hughie,"  she  answered  with  stiff 
lips. 

"Shall  I  go  on?" 

"Yes,  please." 

Drawing  a  deep  breath,  he  continued: 


226  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"  'She  was  rendered  free  from  care  on  the  llth  of 
October  and  was  buried  during  the  consulate  of  Cor- 
nellius  and  Vettonianus.  By  command  of  her  husband 
this  altar  was  dedicated  on' — it's  indistinct  here — 
'about  the  7th  May.'  " 

He  stopped.  "I  think  I  told  you  that  I  buried  the 
bridal  bouquet  here?  Well — that's  all.  I'm  going 
away  to-morrow.  I  thought  I'd  stay  longer,  but  my 
mother  is  calmer — and — I  wish  to  get  away." 

They  rose  and  he  brushed  the  dry  earth  carefully 
from  the  knees  of  his  trousers. 

"Good-bye,  Daffy-down-Dilly." 

"Good-bye,  Hughie — your  hands  are  so  hot " 

"Oh,  I'm  all  right.  I  shan't  be  ill,  you  needn't  be 
afraid.  I  think  I've  a  little  fever,  but  that  doesn't 
matter.  This  was  to  have  been  my  wedding  day,  you 
know,"  he  added,  looking  a  little  wildly  at  her,  "and 
— it  isn't.  That's  all.  Good-bye." 

She  watched  his  tall  figure  until  it  was  lost  among 
the  trees  and  then  went  slowly  back  to  the  house. 

It  was  two  years  before  she  saw  him  again. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII 

SUSAN  LAMBE  was  a  born  tactician  and  un- 
cannily wise  for  so  young  a  woman.    It  may  be 
said  that  in  her  campaign  for  winning  the 
heart  of  the  man  she  loved,  she  made,  as  far  as 
he  was  concerned,  only  one  mistake. 

Hugh  Gunning,  in  spite  of  his  feverish  condition 
the  night  that  was  to  have  been  that  of  his  wedding, 
did  not  have  what  is  known  as  brain  fever.  But  he 
had  managed  to  get  a  very  bad  cold  and  for  the  next 
few  days  was  in  bed  with  something  unpleasantly  like 
pneumonia.  When  he  was  better  Susan  went  to  see 
him,  and  having  laid  out  a  line  of  conduct  for  herself, 
she  never  wavered  from  it. 

She  seemed  to  the  weak  and  unhappy  man  the  very 
ideal  of  a  young  sister.  He  reproached  himself  for 
having  hitherto  misjudged  her,  and  repaid  her  gentle 
ministrations  with  the  dawnings  of  a  real  affection. 
Donna  Mabel,  to  whom  Susan  had  always  paid  court, 
nodded  triumphantly  when  her  son  commented  on 
Susan's  kindness.  "What  have  I  always  told  you? 
She  is  by  far  the  nicest  of  the  three.  She  is  coming 
this  afternoon  with  a  new  book  for  you  and  to-morrow 
or  the  next  day  she  is  sending  the  victoria  for  us  to 
have  a  drive.  That  will  cheer  you  up." 

Poor  Gunning,  these  cheerless  words  were  often  on 
327 


228  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

his  mother's  lips,  but  he  was  made  of  patient  stuff  and 
always  accepted  them  as  they  were  meant.  They  used 
to  sit  in  the  loggia  leading  from  his  room,  and  then 
in  the  afternoon  shade,  a  bowl  of  ice  on  the  table 
nearby  and  flowers  in  vases,  he  lay  stretched  out  in  a 
long  chair  and  listened  to  Susan's  musical  voice  as  she 
read  aloud. 

He  was  very  weak  for  a  few  days,  which  was  a 
merciful  thing,  and  at  times  he  almost  forgot  his  sor- 
row and  lay  in  a  kind  of  mist  of  restfulness,  feeling 
vaguely  that  at  any  minute  the  mist  might  roll  away 
and  leave  him  face  to  face  with  horrors,  but  that  for 
the  moment  he  was  very  comfortable. 

And  Donna  Mabel,  passing  restlessly  in  and  out  of 
the  loggia,  believed  that  the  luminous  idea  that  had 
come  to  her  about  her  beloved  son  and  her  favorite 
Susan  was  as  unsuspected  by  the  girl  as  it  was  by  the 
man. 

Thus  Susan  made  friends  with  Gunning  and  before 
he  went  away,  looking  very  thin  and  taller  than  ever, 
she  had,  she  knew,  won  his  confidence  as  well  as  his 
friendship. 

"You  will  look  after  my  mother,  dear  Susan,"  he 
said  as  they  parted.  "I  shan't  come  back  here  for  a 
long  time — I  shall  be  very  busy." 

"Trust  me,  Hughie,"  she  replied.  "I  shall  be  all 
alone,  you  see,  for  father  and  Daffy  are  going  to  Can- 
ada, and  I  will  do  all  I  can  to  cheer  Donna  Mabel 
up." 

He  smiled  at  the  phrase  she  had  adopted  from  his 
mother  and  shook  her  hand  warmly. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  229 

"Good-bye,  my  dear,  and  thanks  for  all  your  good- 
ness to  me.  I  shall  never  forget  it." 

She  watched  the  carriage  drive  away — he  had 
stopped  at  the  villa  on  purpose  to  see  her — and  then 
with  a  sigh  she  went  into  the  house. 

Lambe  and  Daffy  were  in  Naples  that  day  making 
a  few  hasty  purchases  for  their  suddenly  decided 
journey.  Daffy  was  in  a  state  of  almost  delirious 
though  perfectly  silent  joy  over  the  prospect  of  the 
summer  and  autumn  in  Canada,  alone  with  her  beloved 
father.  The  two  were  closer  to  each  other  than  ever 
since  Sylvia's  marriage,  for  each  felt,  although  they 
had  not  discussed  it,  that  they  shared  the  same  dis- 
gust for  the  beautiful  Duchess's  behavior.  They  were 
both  ashamed  of  her  and  the  feeling  somehow  drew 
them  closer  together.  Subconsciously  Lambe  loved 
Daffy  less  as  a  daughter  than  if  she  had  been  some 
sympathetic  youth  bound  to  him  by  no  troublesome 
duty  ties,  but  to  whom  a  chance  similarity  of  nature 
attracted  him. 

And  when  the  great  idea  of  her  going  with  him  on 
his  aimless  roving  expedition  occurred  to  him,  he  sug- 
gested it  to  her  as  he  would  have  done  to  the  hypo- 
thetical youth. 

"Canada  must  be  a  fine  country.  A  change  of  air 
wouldn't  hurt  you,  Daffy.  Why  don't  you  come  with 
me?" 

And  Daffy  had  agreed  as  simply. 

Four  days  after  Gunning's  departure  the  Canadian 
bound  travelers  left  Sorrento  and  the  breathless  hush 
of  midsummer  fell  on  the  villa. 


230  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Lambe  had  called  once  on  Gunning,  but  they  had 
not  mentioned  Sylvia,  and  Daffy  had  not  gone  to 
Donna  Mabel's  house  at  all. 

"Why  should  poor  old  Hughie  want  to  see  me  ?" 
she  returned  when  the  gentle  Susan  suggested  that 
Donna  Mabel  might  wonder  why  Daffy  did  not  call. 
"Besides,  I'm  ashamed." 

Shortly  after,  when  left  alone,  Susan  invited  Donna 
Mabel  to  come  down  and  stop  with  her. 

"We  are  both  lonely,"  she  said,  "and  it  is  cooler 
here  than  up  there.  You  can  have  the  yellow  rooms 
and  I'll  try  to  make  you  comfortable." 

Donna  Mabel  jumped  at  the  chance.  She  was  quite 
contented  with  her  shabby  old  rooms,  but  while  she 
could  live  simply  and  be  satisfied,  yet  she  loved  luxury 
as  she  loved  strong  scents.  These  natures  are  not  un- 
common, though  they  are  illogical. 

So  down  she  came  with  the  two  photographs  of  her 
poor  Livio,  her  canaries,  her  embroidery  frame  with 
its  apparently  hopeless  entanglement  of  silks,  her  nu- 
merous shapeless  tea-gowns,  her  favorite  books,  and 
her  mandolin. 

Susan  was  indeed  very  good  to  her,  but  Donna 
Mabel,  quite  without  bitterness,  wondered  how  it  was 
that  she  was  so  often  alone. 

The  long  summer  drew  out  its  golden  length,  the 
neighboring  hotels  were  filled  for  a  time  with  chat- 
tering Neapolitans  come  for  the  bathing,  the  beaches 
were  crowded  every  morning  with  a  shrill-voiced,  vol- 
uble crowd  in  costumes,  many-colored  and  vivid. 

Most  of  the  villa  people  went  away,  so  that  Susan 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  231 

in  her  early  morning  or  evening  walks  rarely  met  a 
familiar  face  except  those  of  the  peasants. 

Several  yachts  anchored  under  the  cliffs ;  Neapol- 
itan singers,  in  boats  trimmed  with  paper  lanterns, 
stationed  themselves  under  all  lighted  windows  and 
their  crews  made  the  night  hideous  with  "Santa 
Lucia"  and  "Addio,  mia  Bella  Napoli." 

Melons  were  sold  in  the  streets,  donkeys  wore  straw 
hats  with  holes  for  their  ears,  people  slept  in  the  mid- 
dle of  the  day  and  ladies  repaired  the  ravages  of  the 
heat  with  increased  toll  from  their  rouge  pots. 

Leigh  Hunt  summed  up  a  hot  summer  very  beauti- 
fully in  two  lines  that  Susan  frequently  recalled  dur- 
ing those  blindingly  bright  days : 

"When  ladies  loiter  in  baths 
And  people  make  presents  of  flowers." 

But  behind  their  high  walls  the  two  ladies  lived  in  very 
great  comfort. 

Twice  letters  came  from  Canada,  one  rather  descrip- 
tive from  Daffy,  who  evidently,  in  the  joy  of  words, 
forgot  to  whom  she  was  writing. 

"She  is  mad  about  pine  trees  and  sunsets,"  com- 
mented Susan  rather  scornfully,  "and  it  all  sounds 
very  rough.  I  should  hate  living  in  a  tent." 

The  other  letter  was  a  short  note  from  Lambe  di- 
recting his  daughter  where  to  send  his  letters  and 
adding  that  they  were  both  very  well  and  enjoying 
themselves  hugely. 

Gunning,  on  the  other  hand,  wrote  often.  His  let- 
ters were  addressed  to  his  mother,  but  they  were  meant 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 

for  Susan  as  well,  to  whom  he  invariably  added,  "ray 
love." 

Parliament  was  sitting  late  that  year  and  Gunning 
was  evidently  deeply  interested  in  his  new  duties  as  a 
member.  He  was  working  very  hard  "learning  the 
ropes,"  as  he  put  it,  and  apparently  he  found  little 
time  for  social  doings. 

"He  will  do  big  things,  dear,"  Susan  once  said  to 
his  mother,  who  now  lived,  one  may  say,  in  the  shadow 
of  her  wing.  "How  proud  we  shall  be." 

Donna  Mabel  picked  at  her  mandolin  and  the  horrid 
instrument  gave  out  little  disjointed  twinges  of  mel- 
ody under  her  fingers. 

"Madame  Sylvia  will  be  sorry  some  day,"  she  an- 
swered. 

"Poor  Sylvia !  She  is  very  happy.  It  was  a  clear 
case  of  natural  selection.  They  exactly  suit  each 
other,  so  why  be  grudging?" 

Donna  Mabel  admired  Susan's  charitableness  as  well 
as  her  kindness.  She  herself  was  one  of  the  women 
whose  natures  never  grow  old.  There  were  times 
when  she  quite  forgot  that  she  was  thirty-two  years 
older  than  the  girl,  but  Susan's  sway,  though  abso- 
lute, was  benevolent.  Only  once  that  summer  and 
autumn  did  Susan  write  to  Gunning.  Her  letter,  be- 
ing characteristic,  may  be  quoted: 

"September  20th. 
"DEAR  HUGHIE: 

"Your  mother  is  lying  down  with  a  headache,  so  I 
am  writing  for  her  to  thank  you  for  the  books  and 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 

the  silks.  Will  you  please  go  to  Heads  and  buy  three 
more  skeins  like  this  sample  I  enclose?  There  is  no 
news  except  that  father  and  Daffy  are  going  to 
Japan.  They  are  both  well  and  seem  to  be  having  a 
very  good  time. 

"Your  mother  and  I  are  living  the  life  of  nuns,  but 
we  enjoy  it.  It  is  so  nice  for  me  to  have  her,  and  I 
think  she  is  quite  happy — as  happy  as  she  can  be 
while  you  are  away.  Are  you  not  coming  for  Christ- 
mas ?  I  wish  you  could,  for  I  am  to  be  away.  Sylvia 
is  not  very  well  and  I  am  going  to  her.  I  haven't  told 
your  mother  yet,  but  I  feel  that  I  ought  to  go.  Do 
say  you  can  come  to  her  if  only  for  a  few  days,  and 
then  she  will  not  so  mind  my  going. 

"We  read  every  word  of  your  two  speeches — but 
she  will  have  written  you  that.  Glad  you  are  resting. 
Sorry  to  see  by  the  papers  that  Scotland  is  having  so 
much  rain. 

"Well,  I'm  being  very  dull,  so  I'll  say  good-bye. 
"Always  yours  affectionately, 

"SUSAN  LAMBE." 

Naturally  enough,  Gunning  was  impressed  by  the 
spirit  of  unselfishness  breathing  in  this  communica- 
tion and  his  answer  to  it  was  full  of  gratitude  and 
affection. 

A  few  days  before  Christmas  Susan  accompanied 
Donna  Mabel  back  up  the  hill  and  settled  her  com- 
fortably in  her  own  house  and  the  day  before  Gunning 
came  the  girl  left  for  Rome. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

"FT^HERE'S    the    motor— surely !    Look   out, 
Susan,  and  see !" 

Lady    Corisande    sat    by    the    fireplace, 
which   was   filled   with   maiden-hair   ferns, 
and  absently  held  her  hands  to  them  as  if  they  had 
been  flames  and  she  cold. 

Susan  went  out  into  the  tiny  balcony  and  leaning 
over  it  looked  down  into  the  square. 

It  was  eight  o'clock  in  the  evening  and  people  were 
arriving  at  the  neighboring  houses  for  dinner,  so  that 
the  usually  quiet  place  was  full  of  vehicles,  chiefly 
private  motor-cars. 

"No,  Aunt  Corisande,  it's  some  very  gorgeous  dame 
arriving  at  the  Wellbrooks." 

"Oh,  dear,  where  can  they  be?  I  said  half -past 
eight,  meaning  nine,  on  purpose  to  give  them  a  little 
leeway.  The  train  was  due  at  seven." 

Susan,  who  looked  extremely  handsome  in  her  tight 
black  gown,  came  back  from  the  window  with  a  laugh. 

"That  doesn't  matter  when  it's  father.  I  mean, 
there  are  a  million  queer  mishaps  that  could  happen 
to  no  one  else,  but  which  could  easily  happen  to  him. 
And  as  to  Daffy,  she  is  the  unluckiest  person  in  the 
world.  Probably,"  she  added,  sitting  down,  "they 
have  forgotten  the  address !" 

234 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  235 

Lady  Corisande  uttered  a  little  cry  of  horror. 
"Oh,  no !  Surely,  not  even  they  could  do  that." 

"They  may  have  forgotten  their  luggage — left  it 
on  the  wharf  or  something.  Ah,  there's  our  bell." 

The  Bishop  and  his  wife  had  been  bidden  to  wel- 
come the  travelers  home  and  they  arrived  promptly. 
A  little  later  Fred  Peplow  came  sauntering  in,  much 
amused  by  the  characteristic  non-appearance  of  Chris- 
topher Lambe  and  his  youngest  girl. 

"They're  to  stop  here,  are  they  not?"  he  asked  his 
wife. 

"No.  He  cabled  they  were  going  to  the  Ritz.  What 
an  idiot  I  am,"  she  added,  "we  can  telephone  there  and 
see  if  they  have  come.  Antoine  will  leave  if  his  dinner 
is  spoilt,  and  then  I  should  die.  Susan,  will  you  tele- 
phone?" 

Susan  left  the  room. 

The  Bishop,  whose  handsome  head  was  now  of  a 
reverend  silvery  hue,  stood  by  the  window.  The  world 
had  gone  well  with  him,  and  his  wife  was  as  satisfac- 
tory as  most  wives  who  came  under  his  notice,  although 
he  had  a  suspicion  that  she  sometimes  chuckled  a  little 
to  herself  over  some  of  his  professional  platitudes.  A 
handsome  man,  the  Bishop,  and  probably  deserving  of 
his  reputation  for  being  the  best  dressed  cleric  in  Eng- 
land. 

"I  am  glad  little  Daffy  is  coming  back,"  he  said 
while  they  waited  for  Susan's  report  from  the  Ritz. 
"A  nice  child,  Daffy.  She  will  be  glad  to  have  her 
share  of  the  delights  of  London,  too,  after  all  this 
wandering.  A  strange  idea  of  Kit's,  taking  a  bit  of 


236  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

a  girl  to  rough  it  in  Canada.  Well,  Susan,"  he 
broke  off  blandly — only  exceptionally  lucky  clergy- 
men ever  escape  the  taint  of  blandness — "what 
news?" 

"They  have  arrived,  but  it  seems  father  got  mixed 
and  cabled  the  Ritz  in  Paris  for  rooms,  so  there  was 
some  difficulty  in  finding  an  apartment  for  them.  Aunt 
Corisande,  father  says,  his  love  to  you,  and  please  not 
to  wait  dinner.  They  will  come  as  soon  as  they  can 
get  their  clothes  unpacked." 

Accordingly,  the  fish  in  its  beautiful  green-bedded 
entirety  was  a  thing  of  the  past  when  Mr.  and  Miss 
Lambe  were  ushered  into  the  dining-room.  They 
looked,  these  two  small,  bright-eyed,  sunbrowned  peo- 
ple, almost  like  foreigners  amid  the  group  of  large, 
fair,  typical  Britons.  Daffy  was  kissed  by  every  one 
and  Lambe's  hand  grasped  warmly.  There  was  what 
might  have  been  termed  an  orderly  hubbub  for  a  few 
minutes,  and  then  every  one  sat  down  and  dinner 
went  on. 

Daffy  looked  curiously  at  Susan,  whose  looks  had 
much  improved. 

"You're  nearly  as  good-looking  as  Sylvia,  Susan," 
she  said  abruptly.  "I  like  your  hair  like  that." 

It  was  characteristic  of  her  that,  though  she  did  not 
like  her  sister,  it  never  occurred  to  her  to  withhold 
from  her  the  praise  that  she  honestly  deserved. 

Susan  laughed.  "Very  glad,  I'm  sure.  You  look 
well,  Daffy." 

"Daffy's  always  well,"  put  in  her  father,  beaming 
at  her  across  the  table,  "she's  the  best  traveler  in  the 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  237 

world,  too.  You've  plenty  of  interesting  tilings  to  tell 
Susan,  haven't  you?" 

"Oh,  they  wouldn't  interest  girls,"  objected  Daffy, 
as  if  she  herself  were  a  boy.  Every  one  laughed. 

"Are  you  glad  you  are  going  to  balls,  Daffy?"  It 
was  Aunt  Corisande  who  spoke. 

"Yes,  Aunt  Corisande,  thank  you.  I  want  to  go  to 
the  House  and  hear  Hughie  Gunning  make  a  speech." 

Susan  laughed.  "Precious  little  you'd  understand 
of  it,  I  can  tell  you.  It  was  Greek  to  me  at  first,  and 
even  now  I  don't  always  know  what  they're  at." 

"So  you've  become  a  political  woman,  Susan?" 
asked  her  father. 

Fred  Peplow  set  down  his  glass  and  wiped  his  little 
upturned  mustache. 

"Susan  is  the  wonder  of  the  world,"  he  explained, 
"she  knows  more  about  politics  than  any  woman  ever 
born.  She's  going  to  be  the  first  She  Prime  Minis- 
ter!" 

Daffy  watched  her  sister  curiously  and  the  old  feel- 
ing came  over  her.  "Susan  is  up  to  something."  Daffy 
was  not  at  all  observant  in  the  usual  sense  of  the  word, 
but  the  instinct  against  danger  was  as  strong  as  it  is 
in  some  helpless  little  animals.  This  faculty  had  had 
occasion  to  win  her  own  respect  during  her  two  years' 
trials,  and  although  Lambe  called  it  by  the  unromantic 
name  of  Daffy's  rat-smelling,  he  too  believed  in  it. 

And  as  Daffy  watched  her  sister  in  one  of  the  rumi- 
native and  unexplained  silences  that  had  become  a 
very  marked  characteristic  of  hers,  her  father  chanced 
to  notice  her  face.  A  minute  later  their  glances  met, 


238  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

and  as  Lambe's  eyebrows  climbed  expressively  upward 
toward  his  receding  hair,  she  gave  a  short  nod.  There 
was,  one  could  see,  very  great  confidence  between 
them. 

Lady  Corisande  was  meantime  very  busy  giving  her 
brother-in-law  a  resume  of  the  delights  in  store  for  his 
youngest  daughter  during  the  month  she  was  to  be  in 
lown. 

"It's  a  very  gay  season,"  she  explained,  with  her 
kind,  broad  smile,  "so  many  people  have  debutante 
girls — there  is  nearly  a  glut  of  balls.  Of  course  you 
dance,  Daffy?" 

But  Daffy  explained,  unashamed,  that  she  did  not, 
owing  to  a  habit  of  invariably  falling  down.  "My 
feet  seem  to  catch,"  she  went  on,  with  an  amiable  de- 
sire to  make  this  point  clear  to  her  aunt. 

"Oh,  dear,  that  is  -very  bad.  You  might  have  some 
lessons — or,  well,  I  don't  know,  a  girl  who  doesn't 
dance  would  be  rather  striking." 

The  Bishop  inquired  whether  Daffy  played  or  sang. 
Again  she  shook  her  bushy  black  head.  "Yes,  I  play 
rather  well — technically,  I  mean,  but  it  doesn't  go  be- 
yond my  fingers.  I  am  quite  unmusical,  and  I  can 
shoot,"  she  declared,  without  the  least  intention  of 
being  funny. 

"Of  course,  every  hostess  will  at  once  have  a  shoot- 
ing gallery  installed  in  her  back  drawing  room," 
laughed  Fred  Peplow. 

Susan  made  no  disagreeable  remarks.  Indeed,  she 
declared  that  it  was  a  relief  to  find  a  girl  who  "did" 
nothing.  "And  Daffy  looks  utterly  unlike  other  girls, 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  239 

Aunt  Corisande,"  she  added  in  a  pleasant  voice,  "that 
is  something." 

Later  in  the  evening,  while  the  two  girls  chatted 
together  in  Susan's  room,  whither  she  had  taken  her 
sister  to  have  a  stitch  put  into  a  stepped-upon  hem, 
Susan  said,  "I  am  glad  you  have  come  back,  Daff." 

"Are  you?  Why?"  Her  dark  eyes  stared  hard  at 
Susan.  They  were  very  attractive  eyes,  with  a  funny 
little  pucker,  later  to  become  a  wrinkle,  between  the 
brows. 

Susan  laughed.  "You  funny  child!  Well,  because 
I  am,  I  suppose.  After  all,  we  are  sisters." 

"Poof!"  returned  Daffy,  as  the  maid  bit  off  the  cot- 
ton and  rose  from  her  knees,  "that  never  made  any 
difference." 

She  spoke  without  resentment,  but  her  voice  was 
rather  final. 

When  they  were  alone  Susan  came  to  her  and  put 
one  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"I  know  what  you  mean — of  course  I  do.  I  wasn't 
nice  to  you  and  it  was  horrid  of  me,  but — you'll  find 
me  nicer  now,  I  think." 

Daffy  stirred  uncomfortably  under  her  hand. 

"Oh,  it's  all  right,  Susan — it  didn't  matter.  Oh,  I 
say,"  she  broke  off,  with  a  little  dash  to  the  dressing- 
table,  "here's  Hughie !  What  a  ripping  picture !  But 
— how  old  he  looks." 

Susan  smiled.  "Yes,  of  course,  he  looks  old  to  you. 
He  is  nearly  thirty-four,  you  see." 

"Did  he  give  you  this?    I  want  one,  too." 

"Of  course  he  gave  it  to  me.  We  are  great  friends," 


240  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

answered  Susan  quietly.  "He  is  coming  in  to-night 
for  a  few  minutes,  so  you  will  see  him." 

Daffy  beamed  as  her  father  sometimes  beamed. 
Then  she  suddenly  grew  grave.  "Susan — he  is  all 
right?"  she  asked,  almost  in  a  whisper.  "I  mean  to 
say — he  has  got  over  it?" 

Susan  took  up  a  comb  and  loosened  her  hair  at 
one  side. 

"Jeanne  is  the  worst  hair-dresser.  Oh,  got  over 
Sylvia,  you  mean?  Of  course  he  has,  my  dear.  Men 
don't  break  their  hearts  nowadays." 

"Well,  I  didn't  know.    He  was — awful  bad  at  first." 

"You  didn't  see  him  after — the  scene — so  how  can 
you  tell  how  bad  he  was  ?  Come  along,  let's  go  down- 
stairs." 

Daffy  followed  her  in  silence.  It  was  not  for  her  to 
tell  of  the  burying  of  the  bridal  bouquet. 

Gunning  had  come  in  while  they  were  upstairs  and 
stood  by  the  window  talking  to  Lambe.  Susan  watched 
their  meeting.  Daffy,  who  ten  years  before  would 
have  marched  sedately  up  to  greet  him,  had  learned  a 
more  grown-up  liveliness  of  demeanor,  and  dashed  at 
him  joyfully. 

"Oh,  Hughie,  how  are  you?" 

He  took  her  hands  and  smiled  down  at  her.  "My 
dear  Daffy,  I  am  glad  to  see  you !" 

Then  her  smile  died  away,  leaving  her  face  stamped 
with  the  expression  of  weary  age  that  had  been  its 
strange  attribute  when  she  was  a  wee  child.  She  was 
thinking,  he  knew,  of  their  last  meeting,  and  his  face, 
too,  grew  grave. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  241 

There  was  a  short  pause,  and  then  she  asked  him 
how  his  mother  was. 

A  moment  later  he  drifted  away  from  her  and  sat 
down  near  Susan  with  the  air  of  one  doing  what 
through  custom  has  become  nearly  an  instinct.  Lambe 
put  his  arm  round  Daffy  and  drew  her  out  on  the  bal- 
cony. 

"Do  you  like  it?"  he  whispered. 

"Not  much — do  you?" 

For  answer  he  made  an  awful  face.  "We'll  go  soon 
— tired  after  our  journey." 

Refreshed  by  this  brief  talk  they  went  back  into 
the  drawing  room  and  presently  Lambe  asked  Susan 
to  play. 

Stripping  her  delicate  fingers  of  her  rings,  she  sat 
down  at  the  piano  and  turned  off  all  the  lights  but  a 
distant  shaded  one. 

"What  shall  I  play,  Hughie?"  she  asked. 

Gunning  folded  his  arms  and  leaned  comfortably 
back  in  his  chair. 

"Schumann,"  he  answered. 

Susan  Lambe  could  never  be  accused  of  burying  her 
talents.  She  had  developed  her  musical  gift  in  an 
astonishing  way  and  now  possessed  a  technique  equal 
to  that  of  many  professionals.  Yet  her  technique  was 
never  over-conspicuous  and  she  had  attained  a  mas- 
terly simplicity  of  style.  That  evening  she  played, 
she  felt,  even  almost  better  than  ever. 

She  was,  for  one  reason,  extremely  happy.  The 
end  of  her  plotting  and  struggling  seemed  now  close 
at  hand,  and  when  once  her  end  was  gained  there  was 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 

to  be  an  end  to  all  the  schemes  and  deceits  that  had 
been  necessary  to  gaining  it. 

Forgetting  that  the  habit  of  deceit  is  of  all  habits 
the  most  nearly  impossible  to  shake  off,  she  saw  her- 
self as  she  played  as  the  simple,  frank,  happy  woman 
Hugh  Gunning  deserved  for  a  wife.  Never  for  a  mo- 
ment had  she  underrated  his  uncompromising  honesty, 
and  she  felt  to  the  depths  of  her  soul  that  she,  as  she 
now  was,  was  unworthy  of  him. 

Her  mistake  was  in  believing  that  she  could  change 
after  the  plotting  of  the  last  two  years  and  become 
what  he  believed  her  to  be. 

"Poor  little  Daffy,"  she  dreamed  in  the  fragrant 
dusk,  while  the  piano  sang  under  her  touch,  "I  will  be 
very  kind  to  her,  and  she  must  marry  some  nice  man 
and  never  have  to  go  through  what  7  have  had  to. 
He  likes  her,  too,  and  I  can  have  her  come  to  stop 
with  us.  She  is  almost  pretty  now,  her  little  head  is 
beautifully  shaped,  and  her  nose  is  better  than  either 
Sylvia's  or  mine." 

And  Daffy,  ashamed  of  herself  for  the  thought  and 
really  touched  by  Susan's  change  of  manner  and  her 
tardy  apology,  sat  with  her  eyes  closed  as  the  music 
swept  unappreciated  past  her  unworthy  ears,  and 
again  wondered  what  Susan  was  up  to. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

Y  the  time  that  the  month  was  over  and  the 
day  for  their  leaving  London  approached, 
Daffy  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  what- 
ever Susan  might  be  up  to  there  was  not  the 
slightest  use  in  her,  Daffy's,  trying  to  discover  what 
it  was. 

Susan  was  consistently  kind  to  her,  took  her  to  see 
pictures  and  flowers,  arranged  to  have  her  meet  cer- 
tain minor  celebrities  admired  from  afar  by  her  sister 
— in  a  word,  Susan  was  perfection  in  her  manner.  And 
Daffy  was  grateful,  but  at  the  same  time  she  won- 
dered. 

At  balls  Daffy  was  a  dire  failure.  Not  dancing 
and  not  beautiful,  she  was  not  even  tall  enough  to  be 
seen  in  a  crowd,  and  as  she  was  miserably  uncomfort- 
able in  a  crowd,  Aunt  Corisande  after  three  trials 
agreed  with  her  that  she  might  as  well  give  up  that 
particular  form  of  amusement. 

So  Daffy  confined  herself  in  the  future  to  dinner 
parties,  which  she  loved  and  at  which,  quite  unexpect- 
edly to  her  aunt,  she  achieved  a  modest  success  almost 
at  once. 

"Miss  Lambe  is  charming,"  a  very  important  old 
Duchess  growled  affably  to  Lady  Corisande,  "ex- 
tremely handsome,  and,  my  son-in-}aw  tells  mey  is  un- 

243 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 

usually  well  informed  for  a  young  woman,  but  the 
little  one  is  very  amusing.  Very  like  her  father,  too, 
isn't  she,  and  the  other  is  all  Pember." 

Daffy's  amusingness  consisted  chiefly  in  the  blunt 
opinions  she  offered  on  any  subject  that  chanced  to 
come  up  and  in  the  absurd  blunders  she  made,  always 
without  hurting  any  one  in  any  way;  she  herself  did 
not  suspect  her  own  possession  of  it  and  was  humble 
about  her  social  gifts. 

"Awfully  good  of  Mrs.  So-and-So  to  ask  me,"  she 
often  said,  "if  I  were  in  her  place  I  wouldn't  invite 
Daphne  Lambe  to  my  parties." 

Her  father  was  amused  by  her  modest  popularity 
and  Susan  was  sincerely  delighted. 

Daffy  had  brought  Paris  clothes,  which  had  cost  a 
fortune,  from  New  York,  so  her  time  was  her  own, 
with  no  toll  to  pay  to  dressmakers. 

The  month  was  delightful,  but  the  night  before  she 
was  to  leave  town,  Daffy  confided  to  Hugh  Gunning 
that  she  was  glad  it  was  over. 

"I  shall  be  delighted  to  get  back  to  the  dear  villa," 
she  added. 

They  had  dined  tete-a-tete  at  Lady  Corisande's, 
for  even  Susan  had  been  obliged  to  keep  an  old  en- 
gagement, and  were  now  sitting  in  the  drawing  room 
listening  to  the  rain  pattering  down  on  the  balcony 
outside  the  wide-open  windows. 

Gunning  nodded.  "I  know.  One  gets  awfully  sick 
of — all  this.  Without  my  work  I  shouldn't  have  been 
able  to  stand  it  for  a  week.  But,  Daffy — how  about 
young  Macclesfield?" 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  245 

Daffy  looked  at  him  calmly.  "Mr.  Macclesfield? 
Yes,  what  about  him?" 

The  oval  of  her  face  was  really  very  pretty  and  the 
youthful  smoothness  of  her  pale  cheeks  had  a  certain 
charm  of  its  own.  Gunning  looked  at  her  with  a  new 
interest.  It  was  strange  to  him  that  she,  far  more 
than  the  beautiful  Susan,  reminded  him  at  times  of 
Sylvia.  Something  in  the  way  she  moved  her  little 
upper  lip,  he  thought  it  was — or  was  it  an  occasional 
movement  of  her  head? 

"I  thought,"  he  said,  suddenly  a  little  embarrassed, 
as  she  repeated  her  question  about  Mr.  Macclesfield, 
"I  thought  you  liked  him  ?" 

"I  do.  What  has  that  to  do  with  my  going  to 
Italy?" 

She  knew  perfectly  well  what  he  meant,  he  saw,  but 
she  refused  to  be  led  on. 

"I  thought  you  were  perhaps  going  to  marry  him," 
he  said  simply,  and  her  face  cleared. 

"I'm  not,"  she  answered,  as  simply. 

"Daffy — do  you  remember  what  a  little  fibber  you 
used  to  be?" 

"I  was  a  nasty  little  liar  till— till  that  night—" 
she  broke  off  short  as  the  memory  of  the  night  in 
question,  the  night  of  the  day  when  Gunning  had 
asked  Sylvia  to  marry  him,  rushed  over  her. 

There  was  a  short  pause,  and  then  she  went  on,  "I 
am  so  glad  you  said — what  you  did.  You  see,  I  was 
lonely  in  a  way;  Sylvia  and  Susan  were  always  to- 
gether and  that  threw  me  on  my  own  resources.  Be- 
sides, I  think  it  is  very  easy  for  a  coward  to  be  a  liar 


246  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

as  well."  Her  hands  folded  together  on  her  lap,  she 
sat  quite  still,  gazing  out  into  the  wet  night. 

"But — you  aren't  a  coward  now,  Daffy,  surely?" 

"Oh,  ain't  I?  I  just  am,  though,  Hughie.  I  don't 
suppose  I'll  ever  be  brave — I  mean  fearless.  There's 
a  difference  in  the  meaning  of  the  two  words,  don't 
you  think?" 

"Yes —  I  dare  say  there  is,"  he  answered,  but  he 
hesitated,  for  the  differentiation  had  in  truth  never 
occurred  to  him  before. 

"But,  Hughie — you  aren't  afraid  of,  say — cows. 
Well,  I  am.  Now,  if  you  walked  through  a  drove  of 
cows  you  would  be  fearless,  but  not  brave,  and  it  al- 
ways comforts  me  to  think  that  if  /  walk  through  a 
drove  of  cows,  frightened  to  death  as  I  always  am,  I 
am  brave,  because  in  spite  of  being  afraid,  I  go. 
Don't  you  see?" 

Her  little  face  was  very  eager  as  she  explained  and 
he  was  touched. 

"Of  course  I  see,  dear.  And  you  are  quite  right. 
I  was  frightened  to  death,  for  instance,  when  I  first 
spoke  in  the  House,  so  I  know  what  it  is.  But — it  sim- 
plifies life  to  be  fearless.  I  should  say  Susan  was, 
quite;  shouldn't  you?" 

"Yes.  But  Susan  would  be  brave  even  if  she  was 
afraid.  She  was  always  brave.  Sylvia  was — "  She 
broke  off. 

Gunning  took  out  his  cigarette  case.  "I  may 
smoke?"-  After  a  pause  he  went  on,  looking  at  the 
floor,  "You  needn't  avoid  speaking  to  me  about  Sylvia, 
Daffy." 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  247 


"Needn't  I,  Hughie?     I  thought- 


"I  know.  You  thought  it  would  hurt  me.  Well,  it 
doesn't,  my  dear." 

"All  right,"  she  answered  simply,  "I'm  glad." 

"You  see,"  he  went  on,  "I  never  forget  her.  She 
— she  is  something  to  me  that  no  one  else  can  ever 
be.  I  think  of  her  every  day  of  my  life,  and  I  still 
have  her  picture  in  my  watch." 

As  he  spoke  he  opened  the  back  of  his  watch  and 
handed  it  to  her.  In  silence  she  looked  at  the  little 
head  of  her  sister. 

"Pretty,  isn't  it?"  he  asked.  "I  wonder  if  you 
know  I  saw  her  a  year  ago?  No,  ten  months,  it  was." 

Daffy  stared.  "Did  you?  No,  I  never  heard. 
Where?" 

"At  her  home  near  Rome.  My  mother  was  there 
for  Christmas  with  our  Ambassador,  who  is  her  cousin, 
and  I  went  down  to  see  her.  I  wrote  and  asked  Sylvia 
if  I  might  come  and  call  and  Ginestra  answered  the 
letter,  asking  me  to  come  and  stop.  So  I  went.  I 
was  there  three  days." 

"Was  it — nice?"  asked  Daffy  breathlessly. 

"Delightful.  A  beautiful  old  place,  and  he  is  a 
very  nice  fellow.  They  are  as  happy  as  possible  and 
the  little  boy  was  even  then  quite  beautiful." 

"Is  Sylvia  as  lovely  as  ever?" 

"Lovelier,"  he  answered  steadily,  "and  not  one  bit 
changed.  She  still  drops  off  to  sleep  on  the  slightest 
occasion,  and  he  watches  her  just  as  he  did  years  ago, 
that  day  on  the  boat — till  she  wakes  up." 

Daffy  nodded.    "I  am  glad.    I  am  to  go  and  visit 


248  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

her  some  time.  I  shall  love  the  baby.  Does  Susan 
spend  much  time  there?" 

"No.  She  is  usually  with  my  mother — they  are 
very  fond  of  each  other.  But  she  comes  very  often 
to  stop  here.  Lady  Corisande  is  fond  of  her,  too." 

"Hughie." 

"Well?" 

"I  want  your  photograph — one  like  Susan's.  Will 
you  give  it  to  me?" 

He  laughed.  "Of  course  I  will,  you  funny  child. 
But  why  should  you  want  a  picture  of  my  plain  face  ?" 

Daffy  reflected.  "I  don't  know,"  she  returned  hon- 
estly. "Why  should  Susan?" 

This  remark  made  him  pause.  "Susan?  Well,  yes. 
I  don't  know — only  Susan  and  I  are  very  great 
friends.  I  see  a  lot  of  her  while  she's  in  town,  and 
then  at  the  villa,  of  course." 

But  he  sent  the  photograph  the  next  day  and  Daffy 
locked  it  in  her  letter-case. 

Gunning,  for  his  part,  thought  a  great  deal  about 
her  in  the  next  few  months.  She  pleased  him  very 
much,  in  a  perfectly  unemotional  way,  and  her  fugi- 
tive resemblance  to  Sylvia  had  a  great  charm  for 
him. 

Perhaps  it  was  because  she  had  so  long  been  ab- 
sent and  that  during  her  absence  she  had  done  the  un- 
definable  thing,  "grown-up,"  but  he  felt  remotely  that 
she  was  less  of  a  sister  to  him  than  Susan  was.  He 
could  not  read  her  thoughts  as  he  imagined  he  could 
read  the  older  girl's,  and  often  he  caught  himself 
wondering  what  she  had  been  pondering  on  some  past 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  249 

occasions  while  she  sat  straight  and  prim  and  silent 
among  talking  people. 

It  added  a  distinct  pleasure  to  his  anticipation  of 
his  next  visit  to  Sorrento  to  think  that  Daffy  would 
be  there. 

Meantime  Susan  worked  quietly  on,  her  eyes  on  one 
fixed  point  ahead.  And  when  the  time  came  for  her  to 
go  to  Sylvia's  before  settling  at  Sorrento  for  the  win- 
ter, and  Gunning  had  said  nothing  to  her,  still  her 
patience  was  not  exhausted. 

He  would  miss  her  during  her  absence  and  in  the 
pleasure  of  seeing  her  again  at  the  villa — it  would 
surely  come. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

YOUNG  Mr.  Macclesfield  proved  the  means  of 
bringing  about  Hugh  Gunning's  deciding 
to  marry.    It  happened  in  September,  when 
Gunning  was  just  on  the  point  of  starting 
back  to  England,  and  it  happened,  like  most  momen- 
tous things,  quite  simply. 

One  morning  just  before  luncheon  a  note  was 
brought  for  Lambe  from  the  Tramontana,  and  when 
he  had  read  it  he  sat  down  and  wrote  an  answer.  Then 
he  turned  to  Gunning,  who  was  sitting  near  him  read- 
ing his  letters,  which  had  just  come. 

"Daffy's  admirer  has  turned  up,  it  appears.  He  is 
at  the  hotel  and  wishes  to  know  when  he  may  call.  I've 
told  him  to  come  to  lunch." 

Gunning  looked  up.  "Ah,  young  Macclesfield?  A 
nice  boy." 

"Very  nice.  I  think  Corisande  had  views  regarding 
him." 

"I  think  he  had  views  regarding  himself." 

"I  dare  say.    Daffy  won't  marry  him,  however." 

The  two  men  were  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then 
Lambe  went  on  in  an  innocent  tone,  "She  isn't  the 
marrying  kind,  but  I've  often  wondered  why  Susan 
hasn't  found  some  one  to  her  liking." 

"She  is  unusually  clever,  for  one  thing.  I  dare 
say  lots  of  men  would  be  afraid  of  her." 

250 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  251 

"Yes,  the  empty-headed  type  would,  of  course,  but 
there  are  clever  men,  and  she  would  be  a  good  wife 
to  some  one  who  needed  a  brilliant,  managing 
one." 

"She  would,  indeed,"  Gunning  agreed  uncon- 
sciously. "There  was  Drayton-Gore,  for  instance,  he 
was  very  much  taken  with  her,  but  she  wouldn't  look 
at  him — really  almost  uncivil  once  or  twice." 

Lambe  was  silent  for  several  minutes  and  then  he 
said  calmly,  "Why  don't  you  marry  her,  Hughie?" 

"Me?  I?"  Gunning's  amazement  was  laughable. 
"Good  heavens !  Susan  wouldn't  look  at  me." 

"Are  you  quite  sure?" 

"Why — of  course — what  an  idea !"  But  the 
younger  man  rose  and  walked  restlessly  toward  the 
window,  an  uneasy  look  on  his  face. 

Lambe  watched  him.  "I  am  very  fond  of  you,  Gun- 
ning," he  resumed,  without  getting  up,  "and  I  should 
like  to  have  you  for  a  son-in-law.  It  seems  to  me  that 
Susan  likes  you  better  than  any  one,  although  I,  of 
course,  know  nothing  about  her  feelings.  You  and 
she  are  certainly  good  friends,  and — well,  there  you 
are.  You  would  never  have  thought  of  it,  so  I  have 
outraged  the  social  code  by  proposing  to  you  for  my 
daughter !" 

Gunning  turned.  "I  needn't  tell  you  how  fond  I 
am  of  your  daughter,"  he  began,  but  at  that  moment 
Susan  herself  came  into  the  room. 

"Young  Macclesfield  has  come,"  she  said,  "and 
Daffy  turned  perfectly  scarlet  when  she  saw  him! 
They  are  in  the  garden  now." 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"I  know — he  wrote  from  Tramontana's  to  ask  if  he 
might  call.  Daffy  shan't  marry  him,  though !" 

Susan  smiled,  and  there  was  real  sweetness  in  her 
smile.  Her  own  happiness  she  believed  to  be  within  a 
stone's  throw,  so  she  was  full  of  good  will. 

"Dear  father,  you  know  quite  well  that  Daffy  will 
marry  whomever  she  chooses  to  marry!  And,  after 
all,  why  not  this  boy,  who  is  extremely  nice  and  is  heir 
to  a  really  old  baronetcy  ?  Aunt  Corisande  was  greatly 
pleased  when  he  seemed  to  like  her — " 

"Seemed  to  like  your  Aunt  Corisande !"  Lambe  was 
ill  at  ease  and  his  little  joke  was  made  to  conceal  it, 
but  it  answered  the  purpose  as  a  stop-gap,  for  as  he 
spoke  the  gong  sounded  for  lunch  and  the  strain  was 
relieved. 

Lambe  studied  Daffy's  face  with  something  like 
jealousy.  He  did  not  want  her  to  marry  young  Mac- 
clesfield,  nice  as  the  boy  was — he  did  not  want  her  to 
marry  any  one.  He  loved  her  and  he  wanted  her  to 
stay  with  him.  And  Daffy  was  evidently  very  glad 
to  see  the  young  man. 

He  had  come  straight  from  Derbyshire,  where  the 
Peplow's  country  house  was,  and  it  had  been  full  of 
people  she  knew,  about  most  of  whom  there  was  some 
item  of  news  to  be  given. 

"And  Cicely  Long?" 

"Oh,  she's  going  to  write  to  you  herself,  I'd  better 
not  tell  you!"  returned  Macclesfield.  But  Daffy 
begged  him,  her  face  aglow  with  interest. 

"Ah,  do  tell  me,  please,  Mr.  Macclesfield !  I'm  sure 
I  can  guess,  anyhow.  She's  engaged !" 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  253 

His  laugh  confirmed  her  in  her  opinion. 

"I  knew  it !    But  to  which?" 

Lambe  laughed  in  his  turn.  "Was  the  young  lady 
undecided?"  he  asked,  helping  himself  to  Strangle- 
priest,  a  giant  macaroni.  "Flattering  for  the  one  she 
has  ultimately  decided  to  honor." 

Daffy  nodded.  "There  were  three.  All  mad  about 
her.  She's  awfully  pretty,  isn't  she,  Mr.  Macclesfield? 
Well,  I  am  sure  it's  Captain  Lestrange." 

"Wrong." 

"Mr.  Waring?" 

"Wrong  again." 

Daffy  stared.  "Then  it  must  be  that  little  Graf 
Liittwitz.  And  how  she  used  to  laugh  at  him !" 

Macclesfield  shook  his  head  again. 

"Wrong  again.  It's  a  parson  chap,  just  down 
from  Oxford.  Dolland  or  Bolland,  I  forget  his 
name." 

Daffy  laid  down  her  fork.  "Mr.  Gilland!  I  can't 
believe  it.  He  has  the  most  enormous  Adam's  apple ; 
he  was  at  dinner  there  once,  and  he  had  a  horrible  cold 
and  sniffed  all  the  time !" 

"He  may  have  got  over  his  cold  now,"  suggested 
Susan  gently.  "Cicely  will  be  a  dear  little  parson's 
wife." 

"At  least  say  a  parson's  dear  little  wife;  Mr.  Gil- 
land  is  eight  feet  tall  at  the  very  least,"  declared 
Daffy. 

"Let's  hope  she  likes  giants,  then.  When  did  you 
leave  England,  Mr.  Macclesfield?"  Susan  was  always 
very  polite,  and  Macclesfield  greatly  admired  hei% 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 

While  they  were  talking,  Gunning  watched  Daffy, 
who  sat  on  his  left. 

"You  are  a  wicked  minx,"  he  murmured  to  her,  be- 
hind his  claret  glass. 

"Me?   Why?" 

"Poor  youth,  to  let  him  come  all  the  way  out  here. 
I  blush  for  you,"  he  went  on. 

Now  Daffy,  the  plain  one,  was  the  only  one  of  the 
three  girls  who  was  in  the  least  a  flirt.  Her  con- 
science had  hitherto  been  quite  clear  regarding  Mac- 
clesfield,  for  she  had  felt  from  the  first  that  he  had  a 
proposal  in  store  for  her,  but  he  had  come  down  here 
without  asking  her  permission,  and  the  moment  had 
come  when  the  eternal  mousing  instinct  was  strong 
with  her. 

So  she  interrupted  what  he  was  saying  to  Susan, 
and  by  a  look  and  a  smile  reduced  him  to  silent,  mis- 
erable hope ! 

After  lunch  they  went  into  the  grotto  by  the 
library  and  then  he  lingered  on  after  coffee  as  it  had 
begun  to  rain. 

Presently  Susan  rose.  "Shall  we  go  into  the  draw- 
ing room,  Hughie?  That  new  music  has  come,  the 
Sinding  thing  is  magnificent." 

When  they  were  in  the  corridor,  she  added  with  an 
indulgent  laugh,  "I  thought  we  might  as  well  give  the 
poor  boy  a  chance." 

Gunning  laughed.  "She's  teasing  him,"  he  said. 
"She  is  a  little  brute!" 

Susan  played  for  an  hour  and  Gunning  sat  in  a 
comfortable  chair  with  his  eyes  shut.  Any  one  looking 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  255 

in  unseen  would  have  thought  the  little  scene  a  very 
domestic  one,  and  the  thought  struck  Susan,  as  it  had 
many  times  before  struck  her.  He  was  going  back  to 
England  the  next  day  but  one,  and  she  asked  herself, 
with  a  rare  touch  of  impatience,  whether  she  should 
after  all  have  to  do  the  asking! 

When  they  were  apart  he  missed  her,  so  much  she 
knew,  for  he  had  often  told  her ;  and  he  depended  on 
her  in  quite  a  number  of  ways.  They  were  the  best 
of  friends  and  she  counted  on  this,  for  she  knew  quite 
well  that  he  did  not  love  her. 

Presently  he  rose  and  went  to  the  window.  The 
rain  had  stopped  and  the  sun  was  coming  out.  Daffy 
and  her  admirer  had  just  come  out  of  the  front  door 
and  stood  in  the  gravel  sweep  looking  up  at  the  sky. 

"I  think  we'll  go  to  the  Cascade  Garden,"  she  said, 
as  Gunning  came  within  earshot,  "it  will  be  quite  dry 
there." 

Gunning  came  back  toward  the  piano. 

"Thanks  so  much,  Susan,"  he  said  with  a  certain 
constraint  in  his  manner.  "It  is  beautiful  stuff.  And 
now,  if  you  will  excuse  me,  I  will  go  and  speak  to  your 
father." 

"Of  course,  Hughie." 

He  went  to  the  library  where  Lambe  was  still 
smoking. 

"Mr.  Lambe,"  he  said  hurriedly,  "if  I  can  persuade 
Daffy  to  marry  me,  will  you  give  her  to  me?" 

"Daffy?    Well,  I'm  damned!" 

"I — It's  very  sudden,  I  didn't  know  till  to-day  that 
I  wanted  to  marry  her,  but  I  do." 


256  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Lambe  gave  a  forlorn  little  laugh.  "Of  course  I'll 
say  yes,  if  she  does,  but " 

"Thank  you,  sir." 

It  was  the  first  time  since  Sylvia's  marriage  that 
he  had  ever  called  Lambe  "sir,"  and  the  older  man  felt 
that  it  was  an  epoch-making  episode.  Then  Gunning 
left  him. 


CHAPTER    XXXII 

"  ^| — "V  AFFY,  come  for  a  walk  with  me?" 

•      Daffy  looked  up  from  the  large  bunch  of 

^      j    grapes  she  was  eating  in  the  shade  of  the 
pergola. 

"Why  not  sit  here,  it's  pretty  warm  for  walking." 

"I'd  rather  walk,  if  you  don't  mind.  It's  fairly  cool 
on  the  Cascade  Terrace." 

"All  right." 

She  rose,  and  they  sauntered  through  the  pergola 
and  off  across  the  lawn,  through  the  gate  in  the  wall. 

It  was  not  really  very  warm,  and  Gunning  thought 
that  she  had  made  the  comparative  heat  of  seven 
o'clock  an  excuse  for  avoiding  something  she  did  not 
wish  to  do. 

"Mr.  Macclesfield  gone  away  ?"  he  asked  presently, 
looking  down  at  the  sedate  little  figure. 

She  nodded.    "Yes." 

"A  nice  boy,  Daffy." 

"Ugh,  that's  what  they  all  say.  As  if  it  made  a  bit 
of  difference !" 

Even  in  his  preoccupation  he  laughed.  "But  surely 
it  ought  to  make  some  difference?  If  I  were  going  to 
ask  you  to  marry  me,  I  should  expect  my  recognized 
'niceness'  to  have  some  weight  with  you !" 

"Well,  it  wouldn't,  then:" 
257 


258  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"Then  you'd  refuse  me  without  even  reflecting !"  he 
went  on,  feeling  his  way.  She  looked  absurdly  young 
and  immature  as  she  stood  still  beside  the  tall,  up- 
springing  figure  of  the  Diana. 

"No,  I  shouldn't,  Hughie,"  she  answered,  taking  his 
hypothesis  quite  seriously  as  a  matter  for  thought, 
but  he  knew,  not  dreaming  that  he  was  in  earnest.  "I 
should  accept  you  without  even  reflecting." 

They  walked  on  and  after  a  minute  he  said,  half 
vexed,  half  pleased  by  her  unconsciousness,  "Do  you 
remember  the  last  time  we  met  before  you  went  to 
Canada?" 

They  had  reached  the  Memorial  Stone,  and  she 
laid  her  hand  on  it. 

"Do  I  remember?  Of  course  I  do.  You  were  very 
ill  that  night,  Hughie,  and  oh,  I  was  so  frightened." 

"Yes,  I  was  ill,"  he  answered  thoughtfully.  "I 
wonder  if  the  remains  of  the  bouquet  are  still  there." 
He  poked  in  the  sandy  soil  with  his  stick  and  then 
knelt  down.  "I  buried  it  very  deep,  I  remember,  in  the 
tin  box  it  was  sent  in." 

"Poor  Hughie!" 

"Here  it  is.     Shall  we  have  a  look  at  it,  Daffy?" 

But  Daffy  was  shy  of  emotional  things,  and  she 
hesitated.  He  looked  up,  the  tin  box,  half  uncovered, 
at  his  knees. 

"Won't  you  even  look  at  it?"  he  asked  ruefully, 
and  she  at  once  assented. 

"Of  course,  if  you  really  wish  me  to." 

He  dragged  the  box  out  of  its  resting  place,  dusted 
it  with  his  handkerchief  and  opened  it. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  259 

A  brown  and  piteous  object  was  the  bridal  bouquet 
of  two  years  ago,  but  even  now  the  dried  lilies-of-the- 
valley  were  recognizable,  and  in  the  middle  a  leaf  or 
two  gleamed  green. 

Gunning  looked  at  the  poor  thing  sadly.  "It's  like 
my — my  powers  of — of  loving,"  he  said  in  a  voice  that 
was  suddenly  harsh  with  pain.  "I — I  buried  more 
than  flowers  here,  Daffy."  What  a  fool  he  had  been, 
he  thought,  to  dream  that  he  could  ever  get  over  his 
old  feeling  for  Sylvia!  There  was  a  physical  pain 
near  his  heart  as  he  rose,  the  bouquet  still  in  his  hand. 

"Poor  Hughie,"  Daffy  repeated,  touching  the  with- 
ered flowers  gently.  "Why  did  you  dig  them  up? 
Put  them  back  in  the  box  and  we'll  bury  it  again." 

There  was  genuine  pity  in  her  voice  and  face,  but 
it  was  the  pity  of  a  child  for  some  incomprehensible, 
grown-up  grief. 

"Don't  be  silly,  Daffy,"  he  cried,  impatient  not  of 
her  words  but  of  her  youthfulness.  He  had  spoken 
sharply  to  her  on  more  than  one  occasion,  and  several 
times  in  her  life  he  had  seriously  admonished  her.  But 
this  was  the  first  time  his  voice  had  been  devoid  of  the 
tenderness  due  to  a  child ;  he  spoke  to  her  as  to  a  fool- 
ish woman,  and  it  hurt. 

Her  upper  lip  drew  up  in  the  middle  and  gave  a 
little  quiver. 

Gunning's  heart  jumped.  She  was  so  like  Sylvia 
at  that  moment.  It  hurt  him,  as  it  always  had  done, 
but  it  was  a  luxurious  kind  of  hurt. 

"Daffy,  listen  to  me,"  he  said,  taking  her  hand. 
I  am  sorry  I  was  cross.  You  don't  understand, 


.. 


260  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

quite.  You  know  how  much  I  loved  Sylvia,  and,  young 
as  you  are,  you  must  realize  that  no  man  on  earth  can 
care  like  that  twice" 

"Of  course  he  couldn't.  Oh,  Hughie,  I  hate  to  have 
you  be  unhappy,"  she  interrupted  hurriedly,  "but  I 
do  appreciate  your  never  forgetting  her.  It  is  a  pity 
and  yet,  I  like  it,  somehow." 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,  dear.  But  what  I  want  to  say 
to  you  is  this :  I  never  can  love  any  one  as  much,  or  in 
the  same  way  again,  but  I  am  so  very  fond  of  you; 
I  wonder  if  you  could  marry  me?" 

Daffy  stared  at  him  until  her  eyes  grew  strained- 
looking. 

"I  marry  you?  But  Hughie,  why  on  earth  should 
you  want  to  marry  me  ?" 

"But  I  do  want  to,  dear.   And — well,  could  you?" 

"Of  course  I  could,  Hughie.  I  suppose  I  must 
marry  some  day,  and  I'd  far  rather  it  were  you  than 
any  one  else.  If  you're  quite  sure?" 

She  was  portentously  serious.  Her  little  lip  still 
quivered.  His  heart  smote  him.  What  right  had  he 
to  take  advantage  of  her  ignorance,  of  her  childish 
affection  for  him? 

Then  his  eyes  fell  on  the  tiny  cluster  of  still  glossy 
green  leaves  in  the  ruin  of  the  bouquet. 

"Look  here,  Daffy,"  he  said,  pulling  them  out. 
"This  is  a  bit  of  myrtle;  I  brought  the  plant  back 
with  me  from  Germany  nine  years  ago,  and  kept  it 
growing  all  that  time,  so  that  I  should  have  a  sprig 
for  Sylvia's  bouquet.  It  means  fidelity.  Well,  the 
rest  of  the  bouquet  has  gone,  but  this  bit  of  fidelity  is 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  261 

still  green.  Some  things  have  gone  from — from  my 
heart,  dear,  because  I  was  too  badly  hurt,  and  because 
I  had  loved  her  for  so  long.  But  perhaps  there  is 
still  a  bit  of  green  left  in  it  somewhere.  Daffy,  I  be- 
lieve there  is,  dear.  Will  you  risk  it?" 

She  took  the  sprig  of  myrtle  and  put  its  stem 
through  two  holes  of  embroidery  in  her  blouse. 

"Why,  Hughie,  of  course  I  will.  Only  I  don't  think 
it's  a  risk  at  all,  with  you.  Do  you  know  I've  been 
dreading  marrying  ever  since  an  American  boy  in 
Japan  asked  me  to  marry  him.  And  now  it  won't  be 
awful  at  all !" 

"Thank  you,  my  dear.  I  will  try  my  best  lo  make 
you  happy." 

"Of  course  I  shall  be  happy!  And  father  will  be 
perfectly  delighted,  I  know  he  will.  He  said  in  Lon- 
don that  he  wished  you'd  marry  Susan,  but  I  never 
had  any  hopes  of  that." 

"No,  Susan  and  I  are  very  good  friends,  but  we 
neither  of  us  could " 

"I  told  him  that.  You're  too  good  friends,"  she 
agreed,  proud  of  her  penetration. 

Before  she  went  back  to  the  villa,  Daffy  knelt  and 
buried  the  tin  box  with  its  handful  of  withered  leaves, 
but  the  myrtle  she  left  in  her  breast. 

Christopher  Lambe  was  delighted  and  consented  to 
a  short  engagement. 

"I  wish  it  were  Susan,"  he  said,  while  Daffy  sat  on 
his  knee  with  her  arms  round  his  neck.  "Then  I 
might  have  kept  my  'boy'  here,  a  little  longer.  But 
she's  the  dearest  thing  I  have  in  the  world,  Hughie, 


262  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

and  I'm  glad  to  give  her  into  your  hands.  As  for 
you — she's  worth  ten  Sylvias  and  Susans." 

As  for  Susan,  they  found  her  in  her  own  sitting- 
room  writing  letters. 

"Susan,"  Daffy  cried  from  the  doorway,  "we  have 
news  for  you !" 

And  Susan  Lambe  had  one  second  in  which  to  ar- 
range her  facial  expression  before  she  had  to  rise  and 
face  them. 

"News?"  she  asked  quietly. 

"Guess !" 

"Well — from  your  faces  I  should  say — surely, 
Hughie,  you  aren't  going  to  marry  that  baby !" 

It  was  admirably  done,  the  good-natured  banter  ap- 
peared to  them  both  to  cover  only  good-will  and 
friendly  interest. 

"I  am,  Susan.  But  the  wonderful  thing  is  that 
'that  baby'  has  been  able  to  make  up  her  mind  to 
marry  an  old  man  like  me,  when  she  might  have  had 
young  Macclesfield !" 

Daffy  darted  an  angry  glance  at  him. 

"You  have  no  right  to  say  I  might  have  married 
Mr.  Macclesfield,  Hughie.  I'm  sure  he  didn't  tell  you 
so,  and  I  didn't  either." 

Susan  laughed.  "Now  run  away,  you  two  dear  peo- 
ple, and  finish  your  first  quarrel  downstairs,  if  you 
don't  mind.  I  must  catch  the  post,  and  then  I'll  come 
down  and  join  you." 

When  they  had  gone,  she  locked  the  door  very  softly 
and  sat  down  at  her  desk. 

She  did  not  go  downstairs  for   a   full   hour,  and 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  263 

when  she  did,  and  met  her  father,  he  drew  a  breath  of 
relief.  He  had  almost  feared  she  would  not  take  it 
well,  but  her  manner  quite  set  him  at  rest.  Susan,  it 
appeared,  looked  on  the  marriage  as  a  somewhat  ex- 
perimental one,  Hughie  being  thirty-four  and  Daffy 
not  yet  twenty;  but  she  was  so  fond  of  Hughie,  and 
he  was  so  good  in  every  way,  that  she  couldn't  help 
being  pleased. 

"You  must  grow  up  now,  little  sister,"  she  said  to 
Daffy,  with  a  kiss.  "You  are  to  have  an  important 
role  in  London." 

Gunning  himself  was  happy  enough.  Daphne  was 
a  dear  little  thing  and  she  pleased  him.  As  to  loving 
her,  or  any  other  woman,  as  he  had  loved  Sylvia,  this 
he  knew  could  never  be.  And  Daffy,  not  being  in  love 
with  him,  would  be  easy  to  please  in  the  matter  of  de- 
votion. She  would  not  be  jealous  or  too  demon- 
strative. 

But  he  remembered  how  his  heart  had  stirred  when 
for  a  moment  she  had  really  looked  like  Sylvia,  and  re- 
solved not  to  see  his  sister-in-law  again.  He  would 
run  no  risks.  Her  hold  over  him,  unconscious  though 
it  was,  was  too  strong  still. 

He  went  to  sleep  making  this  determination  and 
then  dreamed  of  Sylvia  all  night. 

Daffy  for  her  part  was  greatly  pleased  and  even 
more  flattered. 

It  would  be  splendid  to  have  dear  old  Hughie  for 
a  husband,  he  was  such  a  dear  and  not  a  bit  fussy.  No 
doubt  he'd  let  her  go  with  her  father  to  Cashmere  as 
they  had  been  planning.  "And  he  will  never  bother 


264  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

me  with  love-making,"  she  sighed  to  her  pillow  just  as 
she  dropped  off. 

And  this  was  the  manner  in  which  came  about  the 
marriage,  noticed  in  the  Morning  Post  one  day  in 
August,  as  having  taken  place  at  Sorrento,  of  Daphne 
Lambe  to  Hugh  John  Gunning. 


CHAPTER    XXXIII 

IT  is  difficult  to  describe  Daphne  Gunning  as  she 
was  during  the  first  two  years  of  her  marriage. 
The  years  themselves  were  not  uneventful,  in- 
asmuch as  they  included  several  happenings  that 
would  count  as  important  to  any  young  woman;  the 
taking  a  house  in  London,  the  furnishing  of  it  in  her 
own  way ;  the  settling  of  her  little  household  at  Dray- 
cott  End,  the  house  Gunning  had  bought  for  Sylvia ; 
the  meeting  and  entertaining  of  many  important  men 
in  London,  for  Gunning  was  looked  on  in  the  political 
world  as  a  rising  young  man. 

All  these  things  Daffy  enjoyed  in  a  way,  although 
her  furnishing  of  the  house  in  South  Audley  Street 
turned  out  to  be  a  failure  and  had,  finally,  to  be  en- 
tirely done  over  by  the  busy  Gunning  himself;  al- 
though Draycott  End  was  dull  without  the  compan- 
ionable sea,  and  her  first  sojourn  there  was  marked  by 
a  disastrous  row  with  the  Vicar's  wife,  settled  by  an 
apology  from  a  furious  Mrs.  Gunning,  who  said 
bluntly  that  she  had  come  because  her  husband  made 
her ;  although  political  talk  proved  to  be  as  hopelessly 
beyond  her  comprehension  as  it  was  beyond  that  of  her 
father,  who  never  could  remember  who  the  Prime  Min- 
ister was. 

In  spite  of  these  little  mishaps  and  drawbacks,  how- 
265 


266  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

• 

ever,  Daffy  wrote  to  her  father  from  time  to  time  that 
she  liked  her  new  life  very  well. 

"Hugh  is  a  dear,  .although  so  solemn,"  she  added 
once,  with  the  disproportionate  result  that  Christopher 
Lambe  at  once  left  his  beautiful  quiet  Sorrento  and 
came  hot-foot  to  the  London  he  detested.  He  found 
the  young  couple  at  lunch. 

"I  thought  I'd  come,  that's  all,"  he  repeated,  in  an- 
swer to  their  surprise,  "I  just  thought  I'd  come,  that's 
all."  But  that  evening  he  lectured  Gunning  in  his 
own  way. 

"You've  been  married  five  months,"  he  said,  "and 
she  hasn't  changed  a  bit." 

Gunning  stared.  "Well,  surely  you  didn't  want 
her  to  change?" 

"But  I  did.  Every  young  girl  who  marries  ought 
to  change  at  first.  She  ought  to  become  a  violent  imi- 
tator of  her  husband,  an  airer  of  his  views ;  the  man 
ought  to  put  his  stamp  on  her  while  the  iron's  hot. 
Then,  a  little  later,"  he  added  dryly,  "as  the  metal 
cools,  the  new  stamp  might,  and  usually  does,  become 
fainter.  Iron  to  receive  and  wax  to  retain,  you 
know." 

"Then  I  don't  see  the  use " 

"Exactly.  You  don't  see  the  use!  My  poor 
Hughie,  that  is  just  the  trouble.  But  there  is  a  use. 
It's  a  phase  that  ought  to  be  gone  through,  my  boy. 
You  marry  a  child  like  Daffy  and  then  let  her  grow  up 
all  in  her  own  way.  You'll  be  sorry  later." 

But  Daffy  would  not  have  understood  her  father. 
Hughie  had  always  been  like  that,  kind  and  busy  with 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  267 

things  beyond  her  ken.  She  had  lost  nothing  by  mar- 
rying him,  and  she  had  won  much.  It  was  great  fun 
being  Mrs.  Gunning  and  having  parties,  even  though 
the  parties  themselves  rather  bored  her.  Thus  she 
went  her  way,  and  her  way  was  in  itself  a  perfectly 
harmless  and  safe  one. 

She  was  given  to  long  walks,  even  in  town,  she  vis- 
ited all  by  herself  historic  places  that  interested  her, 
she  looked  at  pictures. 

Then,  when  she  had  been  married  nearly  a  year,  she 
made  a  friend,  her  first  real  friend  after  her  husband, 
whom  she  always  bad,  and  still  did,  look  on  in  that 
light.  Old  Mr.  Wace  was  a  Charterhouse  pensioner. 
He  lived  in  a  small  room  over  the  archway,  and  Daffy 
discovered  him  one  spring  day  when  she  was  roaming 
about  all  alone. 

Mr.  Wace,  who  carried  a  bunch  of  primroses  in  his 
left  hand,  and  leaned  on  a  strong,  black  stick  with 
the  other,  was  a  tall,  bent,  white-haired  old  man,  with 
a  beautiful  hooked  nose. 

When  Daffy  stared  at  him  he  smiled  faintly.  He 
was  quite  used  to  being  thought  "so  like  poor  dear 
Colonel  Newcombe."  The  little  girl  in  the  smart  blue 
coat  and  skirt  looked  hard  at  him  for  a  moment  and 
then  came  nearer. 

"How  do  you  do?"  she  said  shyly. 

"How  do  you  do?"  returned  Mr.  Wace,  sniffing  at 
his  primroses. 

"I  wonder  if  you'd  think  me  very  rude — "  began 
Daffy,  but  he  interrupted  her  with  a  wave  of  his  fine 
old  hand. 


268  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"If  you  said  I  was  like  Colonel  Newcombe?  Oh,  no, 
so  many  say  it ;  chiefly  Americans." 

Daffy's  stare  changed  to  one  almost  of  stupidity. 
"Who's  Colonel  Newcombe?"  she  asked  gruffly. 

Mr.  Wace  was  delighted,  and  when  he  found  that 
she  only  wished  to  ask  him  for  a  primrose  as  she  had 
not  seen  any  that  year,  his  delight  knew  no  bounds. 

He  had  more  in  his  room ;  a  lot  more ;  they  had  been 
sent  to  him  by  a  friend  in  Devon.  Would  Daffy  let 
him  give  her  those  he  carried?  Daffy  was  delighted 
and  pinned  the  friendly  things  into  her  coat,  and  after 
a  few  remarks  about  the  beauty  of  the  day,  she  went 
away,  leaving  the  old  man  in  the  sun,  alone. 

A  few  days  later  she  came  back,  bringing  a  basket 
of  violets  that  she  had  bought  in  Covent  Garden,  one 
of  her  favorite  haunts.  She  waited  for  a  long  time  in 
the  quiet  quadrangles,  but  no  Mr.  Wace  appeared,  and 
at  last  she  met  a  functionary  in  an  official  cap,  and  ex- 
plained her  difficulty. 

"He  says  he's  always  called  Colonel — somebody — • 
out  of  a  book,"  she  explained,  and  the  functionary 
knew  at  once  whom  she  meant. 

"Oh,  yes,  Miss,  that'll  be  Mr.  Wace.  If  you'll  just 
step  along  with  me,  I'll  take  you  to  his  room.  The  old 
gentleman  has  been  rather  poorly — a  bad  cold,  I  be- 
lieve." 

Daffy  stepped  along  and  found  the  old  man  sitting 
by  his  window  reading  "Masterman  Ready." 

He  was  very  glad  to  see  her ;  it  was  more  than  kind 
of  her  to  come  and  see  him;  the  violets  did  his  old 
heart  good. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  269 

She  sat  down  by  him  and  he  showed  her  all  his 
treasures.  A  picture  of  his  mother  (judging  by  the 
remarkable  plainness  of  whom  he  must  have  taken 
after  his  father)  ;  a  poisoned  arrow  from  Africa;  his 
few  books,  all  well  worn ;  two  stuffed  parrots  mounted 
on  strangely  glittering  trees,  presumably  tropical;  a 
velvet  smoking  cap ;  three  pipes,  one  from  the  Tyrol ; 
and  his  flowered  tea  service,  a  gift  from  some  friends. 
He  was  a  strangely  impersonal  old  man.  He  named, 
in  all  the  subsequent  talk,  no  names,  no  addresses. 
Daffy  never  learned  what  he  had  been,  before  Charter- 
house took  him  to  her  kind  but  melancholy  bosom; 
she  never  knew  whence  he  came ;  only  one  thing  she 
learned,  and  that  was  destined  to  be  of  great  import- 
ance to  her.  Mr.  Wace  was  a  widower  and  his  wife 
had  been  an  angel. 

The  story  was  told  to  her  one  dark  day  when  her 
second  wedding  anniversary  was  only  a  few  months 
off. 

It  had  amused  Daffy  that  the  old  man  should,  in 
spite  of  her  ring,  always  take  her  girlhood  for 
granted.  Several  times,  in  the  slowly  ripening  inti- 
macy, he  had  referred  to  "when  your  time  comes  to 
marry,  my  dear !"  And,  out  of  mischief,  she  had  not 
enlightened  him.  She  had  perhaps  come  half  a  dozen 
times  in  all  to  see  her  friend,  when  he  told  her  his 
story. 

It  was  a  raw,  dark  day,  and  behind  snugly  drawn 
curtains,  they  were  drinking  tea.  Daffy  was  feeling 
very  tired;  she  had  had  bronchitis,  and  was  not  yet 
quite  strong,  she  said. 


270  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Mr.  Wace  was  a  little  silent  that  day  and  Daffy  did 
not  resent  his  mood.  Silence  was  no  hardship  to  her, 
and  she  sat  stirring  her  tea,  quite  at  ease,  while  the 
nickel  clock  ticked  the  minutes  away. 

Suddenly  she  coughed,  and  the  old  man  waked  with 
a  start  from  his  reverie. 

"You — you  have  a  cough,"  he  stammered,  reaching 
across  the  table  and  laying  his  hand  on  hers. 

"Yes,  not  a  bad  one.  I  told  you  I  have  just  had 
bronchitis,  you  know." 

"But,  you  must  go  away.  You  must  go  away  at 
once,"  he  cried  with  rising  excitement. 

Daffy  shook  her  head.  "Aren't  you  ashamed  to  be 
so  inhospitable  ?  Look  at  the  fog !" 

"Out  of  England  I  mean,  away  out  of  the  fog  and 
the  wet." 

"Oh,  no,  I  can't  do  that." 

"But  why  not?  Sur.ely  your  father  is  rich?  Oh, 
you  must  go,  and  at  once,  before  it  is  too  late !" 

He  was  very  much  in  earnest  and  his  white  old  face, 
like  that  of  a  waxen  image,  so  old  that  its  color  had 
faded,  flushed  quickly.  "Oh,  my  dear,  do  not  waste 
time,"  he  said,  "tell  your  father  what  I  say.  I  am 
right,  oh,  I  am  right,  God  knows !  Go,  before  it  is  too 
late." 

He  covered  his  face  for  a  moment  with  his  hands 
and  when  he  looked  up,  Daffy  was  smiling  gently  at 
him,  as  one  who  smiles  at  an  excited  child. 

"Don't  laugh,  dear  Miss  Gunning,"  he  said,  sud- 
denly quite  calm,  "old  people  sometimes  know  things. 
And  I,  alas,  know  this  only  too  well.  If  I  had  known 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  271 

it  all  thirty  years  ago,  I  should  not  be  the  lonely  old 
pensioner  you  see  to-day." 

"You  mean,  some  one  died?  Your  wife?"  Daffy's 
voice  was  very  gentle. 

"Yes,  my  wife.  Oh,  my  dear.  It  is  forty  years  ago 
to-day  that  we  were  married.  Forty  years ;  and  for 
thirty  of  them  I  have  been  alone." 

Daffy  watched  him,  the  firelight  in  her  dark  eyes. 

"She  was  a  lady,  my  dear,  a  delicate,  beautiful  lady, 
and  it  was  in — in  a  cold  old  church  in  the  south  that 
we  met  that  morning,  and  were  married.  Her  people 
had  forbidden  it,  but  she  did  not  care.  She  was  not  a 
girl — thirty  years  old,  five  years  younger  than  I,  and 
she  knew  her  own  mind,  she  said.  And  that  she  did.  I 
had  no  money  and  no  position.  We  came  here  to 
London  together ;  third-class  it  was,  but  what  did  that 
matter  to  her  ?  Her  spirit  was  as  strong  as  her  lovely 
body  was  delicate.  'It  didn't  matter,'  she  said.  It 
didn't  matter  her  having  only  a  sandwich  for  her 
lunch,  it  didn't  matter  walking  from  the  station  to 
the  bus,  and  then  sitting  for  half-an-hour  on  top  in 
the  rain.  It  didn't  matter  her  having  to  live  up  three 
pairs  of  stairs  in  dark  rooms.  Nothing  mattered,  she 
said,  and  I,  poor  fool,  believed  her.  How  could  I  know 
that  in  one  thing,  she,  as  truthful  as  the  angels  them- 
selves in  everything  else,  should,  in  this  one  point,  lie, 
lie,  lie  her  own  beautiful  life  away  ?" 

His  face  flushed  and  his  thin  lips  worked  nervously. 
"It  was  for  me  she  did  it,  so  that  I  should  not  'worry.' 
Worry — my  God! — I  who  would  have  carried  her  in 
my  arms  to  the  warm  sunlight  she  needed,  if  I  had 


272  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

not  believed  what  she  always  told  me — that  it  didn't 
matter !" 

Daffy  took  his  hand  in  hers.  "She  must  have  loved 
you  very  much,"  she  said. 

The  old  man  smiled.  "Yes,  she  loved  me.  When 
the  baby  was  at  last  coming  and  her  cough  was  so  bad, 
she  used  to  look  at  me  with  eyes,  with  such  beautiful 
mother  eyes,  that  mothered  me  as  much  as  the  baby. 
And  when  the  cough  grew  worse  and  worse,  she  al- 
ways said  it  didn't  matter.  You  see,  if  she  had  gone 
away,  I  couldn't  have  stayed  with  her.  I  was  busy, 
and  if  I  had  gone,  I  should  have  lost  my  position." 

"Perhaps,"  suggested  Daffy,  stumbling  on  the 
truth  out  of  her  black  ignorance,  "she  preferred  the 
little  while  with  you  to  a  longer  life  without  you." 

He  nodded.  "Yes,  she  knew  it  was  consumption, 
the  doctor  told  her.  She  wouldn't  let  him  tell  me. 
And — it  is  just  as  you  say — she  liked  better  the  two 
or  three  months  with  me  to  stay  a  year  without  me. 
She  lived  to  see  the  baby,  and  then  before  I  had  to  tell 
her  that  the  poor  little  thing  had  died,  she — she 
coughed  again  and  went  to  sleep  and  never  woke  up. 
The  neighbors  said  I  was  brutal  to  her,  that  it  was  my 
fault  she  died.  I  let  'em  talk.  She  knew  and  God 
knew.  But  oh,  the  loneliness ' 

He  broke  off,  his  noble  old  face  a  mask,  in  that  it 
gave  promise  of  more  than  his  life  had  fulfilled,  very 
beautiful  in  its  sadness. 

Daffy  broke  the  ensuing  silence  by  another  cough, 
and  he  came  back  to  the  present  with  a  start. 

",So  you  see,  Miss  Gunning,  you  must  take  care  of 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  273 

your  cough.  You  will  go  away  to  the  sun,  won't 
you?" 

Daffy  shook  her  head.  "Mr.  Wace,  do  you  mind 
talking  about  her?  I  like  to  hear." 

And  the  reticent  old  man,  probably  glad  that  the 
ice  was  broken,  talked  on  in  the  firelit  dusk. 

Daffy  never  forgot  that  hour.  The  old  man's 
voice  went  on  and  on,  unrolling  before  her  eyes  a 
scroll  of  lovely  old  memories,  a  record  of  real,  true 
love,  such  as  she  had  never  in  her  life  seen.  Depths 
of  tenderness  possible  between  wedded  lovers  were 
shown  to  her ;  little  old  pet-names  told,  little  incidents, 
all  cherished  for  forty  years  in  almost  unbroken 
silence. 

Probably  the  old  man  forgot  that  he  was  speaking 
aloud,  for  the  room  got  darker  and  Daffy  did  not 
move.  He  told  of  the  prayers  his  wife  and  he  had 
prayed  for  the  coming  baby,  how  they  asked  God  to 
make  him  good  and  brave  and  strong ;  of  their  plans 
for  educating  him,  of  how  they  were  to  save  every 
penny  to  ensure  the  luxury  of  knowledge  for  him. 

"She  liked  churches ;  we  used  to  go  to  St.  Olave's 
and  sit  there  in  the  afternoons,  when  I  could  get  off. 
She  liked  the  oldness  of  it,  and  the  kneeling  citizens 
and  their  wives  on  the  tombs,  and  the  bust  of  Pepys' 
wife — he  was  a  man  that  wrote  a  diary  in  Queen 
Elizabeth's  time,"  he  added — and  the  ignorant  Daffy 
could  not  correct  him.  "And  once  we  came  in  here, 
and  she  walked  round  leaning  on  my  arm.  We  didn't 
know  then  that  I  should  one  day  be  one  of  the  old  men 
in  cloaks,  whom  she  liked  so  much.  When  I  had  to 


274  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

come,  six  years  ago,"  he  went  on,  again  realizing  his 
listener's  existence,  "I  was  glad  that  she  had  been  here. 
I  can  see,  from  my  window  there,  the  place  where  she 
sat  down  to  rest,  in  the  gateway.  She  was  tired,  she 
said,  but  it  didn't  matter!  Well,  we  had  ten  perfect 
years,  and  the  last  was  the  best,  for  then  the  baby  was 
corning  at  last.  We  had  a  rather  better  home  by  that 
time,  only  one  pair  of  stairs  and  a  good  view  over  a 
square,  where  trees  grew.  But  I  lost  money  that 
year  again.  I  thought  I  might  take  a  little  risk  for 
his  sake,  and  they  fooled  me.  I  was  never  clever. 
And  when  I  had  to  tell  her  that  I  couldn't  give  her  the 
white  lacquered  'pram'  we  had  picked  out  in  a  shop 
window,  she  said " 

"She  said  it  didn't  matter,  of  course,"  added  Daffy, 
"and  it  didn't.  Little  things,"  added  the  sage,  "only 
matter  when  one  hasn't  a  big  thing,  and  she  had  you." 

Old  Mr.  Wace  reached  for  her  hand.  "You  are 
right,"  he  said,  patting  it.  "That's  just  what  she 
did  say.  But, — yes,  she  was  happy,  thank  God  and 
all  His  angels.  Ah,  my  dear,  when  you  marry,  be 
sure  you  get  the  right  man.  I  was  weak,  and  unlucky 
and  ignorant,  but  I  was  Lily's  right  man.  It  is  that 
that  counts  the  most  after  all.  You  are  so  young, 
you  might  make  a  mistake.  Be  very  careful."  The 
solemnity  in  his  voice  gave  her  a  little  pang. 

"But,  Mr.  Wace,  do  you  think  every  one  is  capable 
of — of  feeling  what  you  felt?  For  instance,  I  know 
a  girl  who  married  such  a  nice  man,  and  he  is  very 
good  to  her,  and  she  is  extremely  fond  of  him.  Oh, 
yes,  extremely.  Only,  it  isn't  at  all  like  what  you  have 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  275 

been  telling  me.  I  mean  to  say,  she  never  could  say, 
'it  doesn't  matter,'  to  things " 

Suddenly  the  old  man  lost  his  temper.  He  was 
seventy-five  years  old  and  very  frail. 

"Nonsense,  nonsense,"  he  exclaimed  sharply.  "Lik- 
ing doesn't  mean  anything.  A  woman  may  like  a 
hundred  men.  If  she  doesn't  love  her  husband,  then 
it's  all  wrong,  all  wrong,  I  tell  you.  And  there's  dan- 
ger all  round  her.  Don't  you  ever  let  any  one  you  like, 
persuade  you  to  marry  him.  You  are  the  kind  who  can 
really  love — not  all  women  can — and  you  could  say 
'it  doesn't  matter,'  for  the  right  man.  Wait  till  he 
comes,  my  dear.  You'll  know.  Only  don't  be  in  a 
hurry.  Wait,  I  tell  you,  wait !" 

He  was  very  much  excited  and  Daffy  had  some  dif- 
ficulty in  quieting  him.  When  at  last  she  left,  she  had 
not  undeceived  him.  He  still  believed  her  to  be  Miss 
Gunning. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV 

DAFFY  went  home  in   a  rather  thoughtful 
mood.    The  old  man  had  impressed  her  and 
her  mind  went  back  at  once  to  Sylvia.  Gun- 
ning could  have  said,  'it  doesn't  matter,'  to 
nearly  everything  for  Sylvia's  sake  and  Sylvia  could 
for  Gianfranco's. 

But  could  she,  Daffy,  say  it  for  Gunning?  She 
knew  quite  well  that  she  could  not.  So  many  things 
mattered  to  her.  As  a  wife,  obviously,  she  was  a 
failure. 

That  night  after  dinner,  she  said  to  her  husband,  "I 
say,  Hughie,  aren't  you  ever  sorry  you  married  me  ?" 

Gunning  laid  down  his  book.  "My  dear  child,  what 
a  very  funny  question !  No,  of  course  I'm  not." 

"Oh,  I  only  wondered,  that's  all." 

"But  what  made  my  dear  little  girl  think  of  such  a 
stupid  thing  ?" 

He  smiled  gravely  at  her  as  she  sat  on  the  arm  of  a 
carved  chair,  swinging  her  legs  and  gazing  at  him. 

"Oh,  I  don't  know !  I  was  talking  to  a  man  to-day 
who  had  had  a  wife  who  was  very  different  from  me. 
He  was  telling  me  about  her,  and  it  made  me  wonder." 

Gunning  laughed,  and  as  he  passed  her  on  his  way 
to  the  door,  he  bent  and  kissed  her. 

"Every  man  to  his  taste,  you  know,"  he  said. 
276 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  277 

She  jumped  down  from  the  chair  arm,  and  looked 
up  at  him. 

"Yes,  only  I  don't  happen  to  be  your  'taste'  really, 
and  I  feel  somehow  that  I — I  ought  to  do  something 
to  make  you  happier." 

A  little  frown  passed  over  his  face,  leaving  a  smile 
on  it. 

"Surely,  you  don't  mean  that?  As  for  your  not 
being — why  should  I  have  asked  you  to  marry  me  if 
I  hadn't  been  very  fond  of  you?" 

"Oh,  I  know  you  like  me.  And  I  like  you,  Hughie, 
indeed  I  do,"  she  returned  earnestly. 

It  is  to  be  observed  that  old  Mr.  Wace's  story  had 
roused  in  her  no  sense  of  any  deficiency  on  Gunning's 
part,  only  a  kind  of  vague  remorse  for  her  own  in- 
ability to  feel  that  things  did  not  matter. 

Gunning  had  important  work  to  be  done  before  he 
went  to  the  House,  but  he  stood  still  and  looked  down 
at  her  with  a  very  kind  expression  in  his  blue  eyes. 

"Of  course  you  do,  my  dear.  And  please  believe 
that  in  spite  of  what  your  friend  has  been  telling  you, 
I  can't  think  of  any  one  I'd  so  like  as  my  wife." 

"Except  Sylvia,"  she  retorted  indiscreetly. 

There  was  not  in  her  the  remotest  approach  to 
jealousy.  The  knowledge  that  he  loved  Sylvia  had 
grown  with  her  growth  and  become  an  integral  part 
of  her  life.  She  mentioned  her  sister  now  merely  be- 
cause he  seemed  to  have  made  a  misstatement. 

To  her  surprise  he  flushed.  "You  have  no  right  to 
suggest  that  I  have  any  feeling  for  another  man's 
wife  beyond  that,  which,  as  my  sister-in-law,  I  owe 


278  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

her,"  he  said  severely.  "You  are  too  old  to  be  so 
childish,  Daphne."  To  say  that  he  marched  out  of 
the  room  would  hardly  be  overstating  the  case.  And 
Daffy,  naturally,  was  left  behind  with  a  dismal  feeling 
of  having  made  a  fool  of  herself. 

"Poor  old  Hughie,  what  a  beast  I  was,"  she  said 
aloud,  "fancy  his  minding  my  knowing!" 

She  was  very  sorry  for  her  husband;  her  feelings 
for  him  had  changed  not  one  whit  since  her  marriage. 
He  was  still  dear  old  Hughie  to  her,  although  her 
mind  accepted  and  indeed  rather  overestimated  his 
importance  in  the  world,  so  that  he  was  a  rather  great 
man  to  her  as  well  as  a  dear,  and  a  poor  dear.  She 
sent  for  her  dogs  and  set  to  work  continuing  their 
education  in  the  matter  of  tricks. 

Gunning,  meanwhile,  sat  in  his  study,  his  papers 
lying  untouched  before  him,  his  head  on  his  hand. 
Daffy  had  no  business  to  touch  on  his  old  grief  in  that 
careless  way.  She  had  about  her  a  curious  touch  of 
roughness,  such  as  young  boys  often  have.  Surely  he 
had  done  nothing  to  make  her  think  he  regretted  his 
marriage.  As  a  matter  of  fact  he  did  not  regret  it, 
although  the  little  flash  of  emotion  that  had  bade  him 
hope  the  evening  of  his  engagement  had  never  come 
again. 

He  was  a  very  busy  man  and  he  loved  work,  but  he 
had  honestly  tried  to  make  his  little  wife  happy.  He 
had  given  her  many  things,  and  now  his  mind  turned 
to  the  subject  of  a  present  he  might  make  her  to  com- 
fort her.  Why  she  needed  comforting  he  did  not  at- 
tempt to  guess,  but  it  appeared  to  him  that  he  had 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  279 

failed  in  his  efforts  to  satisfy  her,  and  he  wished  to 
make  amends. 

Having  decided  on  a  little  diamond  bulldog  he 
had  seen  in  a  shop  window  the  day  before,  he  went 
back  to  his  work  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  How  lucky 
that  she  was  sufficiently  a  child  to  enjoy  diamond 
bulldogs ! 

But  when  he  came  home  late  that  night,  he  found 
Mariana,  Daffy's  Italian  maid,  waiting  up  for  him. 
Daffy  was  ill. 

Going  into  his  wife's  room  he  found  her  feverish 
and  in  pain,  her  hand  pressed  to  her  chest. 

"I'm  so  sorry,  Hughie,"  she  gasped,  "but  I  can't 
breathe,  I  feel  as  if  an — elephant  were  sitting  on — my 
—chest." 

It  was  very  late,  but  Gunning  at  once  sent  for  the 
doctor  and  then,  while  he  waited,  sat  by  Daffy  and 
tried  to  make  her  more  comfortable. 

"He  said  I  mustn't  stay  in  this  climate,"  she  broke 
out,  "that's  what  killed  her.  Only,  it  doesn't  matter. 
I  say,  Hughie,"  she  added,  sitting  bolt  upright  and 
clasping  her  hot  hands  round  his  arm,  "I  do  wish  I 
wasn't  such  a  goose.  Or  that  I  was  better  looking. 
I'm  not  a  bit  of  good  as  a  wife,  and  I'm  sorry." 

Her  fever  was  very  high.  When  the  doctor  came  he 
looked  grave,  and  declared  simply  that  his  patient 
seemed  to  be  in  for  pneumonia.  Poor  Daffy,  she  was 
very  ill  indeed,  and  when  at  last  she  was  announced  to 
be  out  of  danger,  she  was  so  weak  that  she  couldn't 
even  speak. 

Her  delirious  dreams  had  been  pleasant  rather  than 


280 

otherwise,  for  she  seemed  back  in  the  years  with  old 
Mr.  Wace  and  his  Lily,  only  he  was  young  Mr.  Wace 
and  looked  exactly  like  the  second  secretary  to  the 
Russian  Embassy.  Their  happiness  was  so  beautiful, 
the  only  sad  part  of  it  all  was  Daffy's  inability  to  stave 
off  the  disaster  that  only  she  saw  to  be  coming.  Her 
talk  was  constantly  that  Lily  must  go  away ;  that  it 
did  matter ;  that  Lily  could  not  stand  the  cold  and  the 
wet,  and  must  go  away.  "Don't  let  her  say  it  doesn't 
matter,"  she  begged  the  nurse,  "it  does  matter  and  he 
ought  to  be  told." 

On  this  point  she  insisted  so  strongly  that  the  doc- 
tor at  last  asked  Gunning  if  she  could  not  have  her 
way. 

"Can't  you  tell  'him,'  whoever  he  is,  that  'Lily'  must 
go  away?  If  Mrs.  Gunning  could  be  made  to  under- 
stand that  'Lily'  has  gone  away,  her  mind  might  be 
able  to  rest." 

"But,  Sir  John,  I  haven't  the  least  idea  of  whom 
she  is  talking.  I  know  no  one  named  Lily,  and  she  has 
never  mentioned  to  me  a  friend  of  hers  of  that 
name.  I — "  he  broke  off,  his  troubled  eyes  fixed  on 
the  birthday  knights ! 

Sir  John  shrugged  his  shoulders.  "She  is  evidently 
fond  of  'Lily',"  he  said  dryly  and  went  away,  leaving 
Gunning  convinced  that  the  great  man  was  blaming 
him  for  his  reprehensible  ignorance  of  his  young 
wife's  interests. 

He  was  very  kind  and  devoted  to  Daffy,  notwith- 
standing the  doctor's  views.  Even  his  beloved  work 
was  neglected  for  the  worst  days  of  the  illness. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  281 

Lady  Corisande  told  every  one  how  tragic  to  be- 
hold was  his  grief. 

"He  wanders  round  the  house  like  a  piteous  ghost," 
she  declared,  "I  had  no  idea  he  was  so  in  love  with  the 
funny  little  thing."  But  then  Lady  Corisande  al- 
ways presented  her  relatives  in  the  most  becoming 
light  possible. 

Sir  John  Wilcox,  on  the  other  hand,  confided  to  his 
wife  that  for  his  part  he'd  hate  to  have  Escott  (his 
son-in-law)  take  as  little  interest  in  Julia's  doings  as 
Mr.  Gunning  took  in  his  wife's. 

"Doesn't  seem  to  know  who  her  most  intimate 
friends  are,  even,"  he  added,  drinking  beer  out  of  a 
silver  cup,  the  gift  of  a  grateful  German  serenity. 

And  so  vast  is  the  vastness  of  London,  that  when 
events  occurred  that  settled  forever  the  question  of 
Gunning's  feelings  for  his  wife,  Sir  John  and  Lady 
Wilcox  never  learned  in  what  way  the  question  was 
decided. 

"A  sea  voyage  would  be  the  best  thing,"  Sir  John 
told  his  patient's  husband,  "a  long,  warm  sea  voyage. 
Say — the  West  Indies.  No,  her  lungs  aren't  really  af- 
fected, but  she  is  very  delicate,  Mr.  Gunning." 

Gunning  reflected  a  moment.  "She  might  go  to  her 
father's  in  Sorrento.  I  could  take  her  there  and  come 
back." 

But  Sir  John  enjoyed  enforcing  the  use  of  a  pre- 
scription in  which  he  did  most  thoroughly  believe. 

"I  should  not  advise  that.  The  journey  would  be 
far  better.  She  ought  not  to  think  of  coming  back 
here  before  May  at  the  earliest.  Let  me  see,  this  is  the 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 

sixteenth  of  December.  Why  don't  you  go  to  Ceylon  ? 
Kandy  would  be  excellent  just  now,  and  a  little  later 
that  place  in  the  hills." 

"I  know  Ceylon  well,"  said  Gunning  gloomily, 
"but " 

'Good.  Then  let  us  decide  on  Ceylon.  She  likes 
traveling,  she  tells  me." 

"Yes." 

"Then,  good  morning." 

"Good  morning,  Sir  John."  Two  excellent  men 
shook  hands,  detesting  each  other  cordially,  and  Gun- 
ning, after  a  few  minutes'  reflection,  went  up  to 
Daffy's  room. 

It  was  a  very  pretty  room  now  that  he  had  done 
away  with  the  furniture  of  her  choosing,  and  it 
looked  pleasant  enough  in  the  firelight. 

Daffy  lay  on  a  couch,  wrapped  in  a  shell-colored 
dressing  gown  and  covered  with  an  eider-down.  Her 
little  face  was  smaller  than  ever,  her  hands  on  the  silk 
looked  like  faded  petals  of  some  white  flower. 

"Well,  my  dear,"  he  began,  kissing  her.  "What 
do  you  think  of  a  journey  to  Ceylon?" 

Her  answer  startled  him.  "Dear  me,"  she  said, 
without  opening  her  eyes,  "am  I  that  bad?" 

"How  do  you  mean,  dear?" 

She  had  meant,  quite  unresentfully,  just  what  she 
said.  Only  very  great  necessity  could  drag  him  from 
his  work. 

"Don't  you  think  some  place  nearer  might  do?"  she 
asked.  "It's  a  pity  for  you  to  have  to  go." 

"Thai  doesn't  matter,"  he  answered  kindly. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  283 

She  was  very  weak  and  the  words  reminded  her  of 
her  dream  friends,  Mr.  Wace  and  Lily. 

"Doesn't  matter,"  she  repeated,  and  two  big  tears 
rolled  quietly  down  her  wasted  cheeks. 

Poor  Gunning  was  overwhelmed  with  remorse,  for 
he  knew  not  what. 

Kneeling  by  the  couch,  he  took  her  little  body  in 
his  arms  and  laid  his  cheek  close  to  hers. 

"My  dear,  what  is  it?  Don't  you  wish  to  go?  I 
thought  it  would  be — be  so  delightful." 

He  stumbled  a  little  over  the  lie,  but  surely  it  was 
not  counted  as  a  lie  against  him. 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  moment  and  then  she 
whispered,  "Father  can  take  me." 

But  Gunning  possessed  a  strong  sense  of  duty. 
Dearly  as  he  loved  his  work,  he  felt  that  this  little 
creature  he  had  married  deserved  his  care  and  his 
time. 

"Certainly  not,"  he  returned  promptly,  "7  will 
take  you  unless  you  wish  me  not  to?"  The  question, 
put  playfully,  she  answered  with  the  monumental 
gravity  that  had  amused  him  in  her  as  a  child. 

"Oh,  Hughie,  you  know  I'll  love  to  have  you  take 
me.  And  it  is  so  good  of  you." 

So  it  was  settled.  Lambe,  who  was  in  Transylvania, 
came  back,  on  receipt  of  Gunning's  first  wire,  without 
waiting  for  the  following  quieting  ones,  and  found 
the  travelers  eating  their  last  dinner  before  leaving 
England. 

When  Daffy  had  gone  to  bed,  the  two  men  sat 
smoking. 


284  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"Poor  wee  thing,  how  awfully  bad  she  looks  even 
yet,"  Lambe  began,  with  a  voice  that  was  not  quite 
steady. 

"Yes,  she  was  very  ill.  But  the  doctors  say  the 
sea  air  will  soon  set  her  up.  Besides,  you  know  she 
loves  traveling  and  is  so  interested,  it's  bound  to  do 
her  good." 

"Yes,  she's  a  good  traveler." 

"She's  got  all  sorts  of  queer  things  to  take,  enough 
tropical  contrivances  to  last  for  a  year.  Also  she  has 
a  very  fat  book  on  'Ceylon  and  Its  Inhabitants,' which 
she  is  already  studying  profoundly.  Dear  little 
Daffy." 

Christopher  Lambe's  usually  vague  eyes  were  very 
intent  for  a  moment. 

"Yes,  she  really  likes  books  about  places — few  peo- 
ple do — I  envy  you  taking  her  there,  it's  a  beautiful 
place." 

"I  say,  Lambe,  why  don't  you  come  with  us?" 
Gunning's  heartiness  was  plainly  visible.  "She  would 
love  it,  and  so  should  I.  Do  come." 

Lambe's  face  flushed  eagerly  for  a  moment. 
"By  Jove,  I  should  enjoy  it,  I  could  get  what  I 
need  in  Marseilles — "  and  then  he  broke  off  short. 
"No,  no,  I  won't  come,  Hughie;  thanks,  all  the 
same." 

"But  why?  I  am  very  little  good  as  a  companion 
for  her,  you  know,  and  you  would  keep  her  from  be- 
ing lonely.  Do  come." 

"No,  I  will  not  come."  Lambe  rose,  for  it  was  late. 
"I'll  go  to  bed  now  if  you  don't  mind.  And,  I  say, 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  285 

Gunning,  she  is  very  young,  and  very  ignorant,  but 
you  mustn't  let  her  be  lonely,  you  know." 

Gunning  was  silent.  The  two  men  thoroughly  un- 
derstood each  other  and  he  knew  why  his  father-in-law 
had  decided  not  to  go. 

"You  are  right,"  he  said  simply,  as  they  shook 
hands,  "she  mustn't  be  lonely.  I'll  do  my  best." 


CHAPTER    XXXV 

DAFFY  came  out  of  the  bungalow  Gunning 
had  taken,  up  beyond  the  Galle  Face  Hotel, 
and  stood  on  the  portico  steps  looking  out 
over  the  freshly  sprinkled  sweep  of  red  soil 
from  under  the  moonflowers  that  gave  the  house  its 
name. 

The  day  had  been  very  warm,  and  now  the  moon,  a 
huge,  orange-colored  globe,  rode  high,  showering  the 
earth  with  its  light. 

To  the  left  of  the  door  stood  the  rickshaws,  their 
boys  loafing  in  the  shadow,  only  their  white  loin- 
cloths clearly  visible. 

Daffy  wore  white  and  round  her  neck  gleamed  a 
single  string  of  not  very  large,  but  very  perfect, 
pearls,  Gunning's  "getting-well"  gift. 

She  was  much  better  than  she  had  been  on  leaving 
England  a  month  ago,  but  in  the  moonlight  her  little 
face  looked  still  delicate  and  her  waist  might  almost 
have  been  clasped  by  some  large  woman's  bracelet. 

"Hughie." 

As  she  spoke,  the  boys  emerged  from  their  shadow 
and  hastened  to  her  with  many  bends  of  willowy  brown 
backs.  One  boy  was  young  and  handsome,  the  other 
was  old,  toothless  and  sad-looking. 

386 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  287 

Daffy  waved  them  away  and  explained  to  them  in 
English  that  she  had  not  called  them. 

Presently  Gunning,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  came  to  his 
window  far  down  the  portico.  "Yes,  dear,  what  is 
it?" 

"We  shall  be  late,  it's  half-past  eight  already." 

Gunning  came  toward  her.  "The  mail's  in,"  he 
explained,  "and  I  had  two  cablegrams  to  write.  I 
ought  to  get  out  my  code  book  and  send  another. 
Suppose  you  go  on  without  me,  and  I'll  come  as  soon 
as  I  can?" 

Daffy  nodded.  "All  right.  You'll  come  as  soon  as 
you  can?  I'll  tell  Mrs.  Harscamp — any  important 
news  from  home?" 

He  smiled.  "No,  dear,  only  political.  Oh,  yes,  Mrs. 
Harscamp  will  understand;  mail  day  has  privileges 
out  here.  Hi,  boy !" 

Both  boys  raced  forward,  pulling  their  rubber- 
tired  vehicles,  and  Daffy  seated  herself  in  that  of  the 
old  man. 

"Do  come  soon,  Hughie,  they're  sure  to  talk  of 
things  I  don't  understand.  Good-bye." 

"Good-bye,  dear,  I  shan't  be  more  than  half  an 
hour  behind  you." 

He  stood  for  a  moment  listening  to  the  soft  pad- 
ding of  the  boy's  feet  as  he  tore  down  the  avenue,  and 
then  went  back  to  his  work. 

The  Galle  Face  Road  was  not  now  so  full  of  rick- 
shaws as  it  had  been  a  few  minutes  before,  but  still 
there  were  many  people  to  be  seen.  Fat  natives  boil- 
ing over  the  narrow  vehicle's  seat,  and  blurring  their 


288  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

outline,  men  and  women  in  evening  dress,  the  new- 
comers in  vain  trying  to  look  unconscious  of  their  un- 
accustomed conveyance,  belated  tourists  in  topees 
tearing  home  to  dinner.  The  lights  bobbed  merrily 
along  the  wide,  red  road,  the  moonlight  in  its  calm 
strength  seeming  to  draw  their  strength  from  them, 
and  on  the  left,  swept  in  slowly  the  enormously  long, 
oily  waves  of  the  ocean,  breaking  like  cream  on  the 
sand. 

A  group  of  huge, bearded  Afghans  in  towering  tur- 
bans inspected  Daffy  gravely  as  she  passed;  on  a 
bench  was  huddled  a  sleeping  Chinaman ;  a  closed  na- 
tive carriage  with  gilded  slats  grated  along,  drawn  by 
two  bullocks. 

It  was  a  variegated  and  interesting  scene  and  Daffy 
loved  it. 

She  wished,  however,  that  her  boy's  ribs  were  not 
so  painfully  prominent  and  his  knot  of  oiled  hair  not 
so  scant  and  gray.  It  is  sad  that  the  Cingalee  coolie 
never  ceases  to  be  a  boy  till  he  dies.  The  Tamils,  big 
black  men,  are  better  runners,  but  the  little  Cingalese 
appealed  more  to  the  girl  by  reason  of  their  slight 
alertness  and  their  pathetic  eyes,  and  whenever  she 
could,  she  engaged  them. 

Her  rickshaw  had  left  the  scattered  crowd  now  and 
was  bowling  along  at  the  end  of  the  promenade,  where 
it  merges  into  the  bi-villa'd  road  leading  to  the  town. 

Suddenly  Daffy  heard  a  sound  of  singing ;  a  light 
and  musical  baritone  voice  singing  one  of  the  few 
songs  she  could  distinguish :  "I'll  Sing  Thee  Songs  of 
Araby,"  it  went  very  sweet. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  289 

Thoroughly  unmusical  people  often  have  what  they 
call  a  favorite  song,  and  this,  whether  from  associa- 
tion or  because  she  was  subconsciously  proud  of  recog- 
nizing it  when  they  met,  was  Daffy's. 

She  stopped  putting  on  her  gloves — always  a  tire- 
some and  lengthy  task  on  a  warm  evening  in  Colombo 
— and,  calling  to  her  boy,  made  him  understand  that 
he  was  to  go  slower.  Then  she  leaned  forward  and 
looked  out  into  the  shadows  for  the  singer. 

He  was  some  distance  ahead  of  her,  and  he  was 
walking.  She  could  see  a  tall,  broad  figure  all  in 
white  on  her  left,  and  now,  in  the  almost  deserted 
road,  he  was  singing  louder.  His  voice  was  a  most 
sweet  one,  with  a  beguiling  cadence  that  Daffy  felt, 
though  she  could  not  have  explained  it. 

"  'And  charm  thee  to  a  tear.5  " 

But  it  was  late  and  she  must  not  tarry,  so  at  an- 
other sign,  the  rickshaw  shot  past  the  singer,  leaving 
him  still  charming  some  one  to  a  tear.  He  turned  as 
the  rickshaw  passed  him,  but  Daffy  did  not  look  at 
him.  Her  left  glove  refused  absolutely  to  go  on,  and 
she  was  engaged  in  a  heated  struggle  with  it. 

A  minute  later  she  dragged  it  off  in  a  fury,  and  a 
flash  of  something  for  a  second  dulled  the  moonlight. 

"Stop,  boy,  stop,  my  ring !    Stop,  I  say." 

The  boy  stopped  slowly,  showing  his  unlovely 
gums,  and  Daffy  got  out. 

Her  glove  had,  in  coming  off,  jerked  from  her  thin 
finger  her  diamond  engagement  ring.  Lifting  up 
her  skirts  to  save  them  from  the  red  dust,  she  went 
back  a  few  steps  and  began  her  search. 


290  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  but  is  this  your  ring?" 

It  was  the  singer  and  in  his  brown  palm  lay  the 
ring. 

"It  fell  at  my  very  feet,"  he  explained,  "don't  you 
want  it  any  more?" 

Daffy  blundered  into  speech,  shy  as  usual  with 
strangers. 

"Oh,  thank  you  so  much ;  yes,  of  course  I  want  it — 
how  good  of  you — I  couldn't  get  my  glove  on,  you 
see,  so  I  tore  it  off — the  glove,  I  mean,  and  the  ring 
flew  off,  too." 

She  held  out  her  hand  and  her  little  finger  just 
touched  his  as  she  took  the  ring.  Then  she  looked  up 
and  he  smiled  at  her,  and  her  shyness  fled  and  she  felt 
as  if  she  had  known  him  all  her  life. 

"I  must  hurry,  I'm  going  to  a  dinner,  and  am  late 
already." 

He  bowed,  still  smiling.  "I  have  a  letter  of  intro- 
duction to  Mr.  Gunning,  and  may  I  introduce  myself? 
I'm  Nicholas  Skene,  tea-planter  and  black  sheep — 
very  much  at  your  service.'' 

"Oh,  you  are  Mr.  Skene !  Yes,  I  know,  my  husband 
told  me.  You  are  Mrs.  Harscamp's  friend." 

He  glanced  quickly  at  her,  but  her  face  was  inno- 
cent of  all  second  meaning. 

"Yes,  Harscamp  has  been  very  good  to  me.  I'm 
dining  there  to-night.  I  wonder  if  by  any  lucky 
chance,  you  are,  too !" 

Daffy  sped  on  to  the  Grand  Oriental,  her  mind  full 
of  pleasant  interest.  So  this  was  Nicko  Skene  and  he 
was  also  dining  with  the  Harscamps ! 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  291 

"How  nice  to  have  somebody  young  there,"  she 
thought  childishly.  "I  do  wish  he'll  be  somewhere 
near  me.  How  beautiful  he  is.  I  do  hope  Hughie 
can  do  something  for  him.  I'm  sure  he'll  try — he 
looks  so  like  Sylvia." 

Nicko  Skene  was  indeed,  as  she  said,  beautiful.  In 
another  generation  I  should  perforce  describe  him  as 
being  like  a  Greek  God.  His  head,  set  on  a  strong 
neck,  was  small  and  well  shaped,  his  fair  hair  curled 
closely  around  it,  and  his  pellucid  violet  gray  eyes  were 
twice  as  large  as  most  people's,  although  the  smooth, 
long  lids  were  lazily  heavy.  Disastrous  eyes  they  were, 
with  ready  tears  behind  them,  the  tears  that  do  not 
gall,  but  blur  the  brightness  of  the  eyes  and  hang 
pathetically  on  the  lashes. 

His  well-molded  chin  betokened  character  and  firm- 
ness, his  straight  nose  was  quite  classic,  and  his  mouth, 
smooth  and  of  a  pleasant  dark  red  color,  was  clear 
cut  and  sank  deep  at  the  corners.  A  magnificent  face, 
noble  and  strong. 

And  its  owner  was  without  doubt  the  most  out-and- 
out  scoundrel  in  the  island.  This  discrepancy  is  un- 
usual, because  scroundrelism  does  not  usually  belie  it- 
self in  expression.  But  so  it  was. 

When  Daffy  sat  down  at  the  table  in  the  restaurant 
of  the  G.  O.  H.,  Skene,  to  her  joy,  was  next  her.  On 
her  left  sat  her  host,  Mr.  Theodore  Harscamp,  an  an- 
glicized Belgian,  a  fat,  cheerful  man  with  a  bibulous 
nose,  which  in  this  case  did  not  belie  its  owner. 

The  room  was  packed  with  diners,  but  kept  fairly 
cool  with  electric  punkahs.  In  the  little  gallery  an 


292  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

orchestra  played,  not  too  loud,  and  the  dinner  was 
good. 

Mrs.  Harscamp,  a  handsome  woman  with  the  pallid 
complexion  of  women  who  have  been  long  enough  in  a 
hot  climate,  had  on  her  right  and  left  a  yachting 
peer,  red-bearded  and  taciturn,  and  an  empty  chair — 
Gunning's  chair. 

On  Harscamp's  left  sat  a  middle-aged  woman  in  a 
high  black  frock,  and  between  Gunning's  chair  and 
Skene  was  a  very  pretty,  frizzy-haired  girl,  whose 
name  Daffy  had  not  caught,  but  whom  every  one  in 
the  party  called  Violet. 

It  was  a  merry  little  party,  much  more  amusing, 
Daffy  reflected,  than  London  dinners.  Every  one 
talked  island  shop,  and  shop  is  always  interesting 
when  not  proffered  in  too  large  doses. 

Harscamp  told  her  who  the  people  at  the  neighbor- 
ing tables  were,  several  local  celebrities,  one  or  two 
travelers  of  importance ;  the  pretty  fair  girl  with  the 
ear  trumpet  was  Rosie  Waldron  of  the  Gaiety,  now 
Lady  Lenvick ;  the  tall  man  with  the  very  large  nose 
was  a  political  demagogue  on  his  way  home  from 
India  where  he  had  succeeded  in  stirring  up  a  certain 
amount  of  disaffection  among  the  ever-ready  natives. 

"Frozen  to  death  in  the  Red  Sea,  one  or  two  of  my 
fellows  nearly  died,"  declared  the  yachting  peer,  sud- 
denly after  a  long  period  of  silence. 

Then  Gunning  arrived,  was  forgiven  by  his  hostess, 
and  Daffy  found  herself  listening  to  young  Skene's 
description  of  what  his  life  was  on  his  tea  plantation. 

"Only  excitement  is  mail  day,  you  know,  and  as  the 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  293 

new  Governor  is  a  merry  soul,  an  occasional  ball  at 
Government  House.  Lots  of  pretty  girls,  but  they 
generally  go  home  just  as  one  gets  fond  of  'em. 
Violet's  going  next  month,"  he  added,  glancing  at  his 
pretty  neighbor. 

"And  are  you  fond  of  her?"  laughed  Daffy. 

"Not  I.  Pretty,  isn't  she?  Good  sort,  too,  but— " 
he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"What  does  that  mean?" 

"Tar-brush.  Her  great-grandmother  was  as  black 
as  your  hat." 

Daffy  stared  at  the  other  girl,  who  was  fairer  than 
she  herself. 

"No,  it  can't  be  trueP* 

"But  it  is!" 

"How  very  sad !  I  suppose  it  will  hurt  her  all  her 
life,  won't  it?" 

"Not  it.  She'll  go  home  and  marry  some  chap  who 
doesn't  know  the  East,  and  all  will  go  merry  as  a 
church  bell — what  d'ye  call  it? — marriage  bell — un- 
less luck  should  go  against  her  and  she  should  have  a 
black  baby." 

He  smiled  gaily  as  he  made  these  tragic  revelations, 
and  Daffy  forgot  his  subject  as  she  watched  his 
face. 

Harscamp  had  a  rubber  plantation  to  sell.  "I  want 
to  get  rid  of  it  and  take  Mabel  home,"  he  explained, 
with  an  affectionate  glance  at  his  pretty  wife.  "She's 
had  about  enough  of  it  out  here,  haven't  you,  old 
girl?" 

Mrs.  Harscamp  nodded.     "I  have  indeed,  Jim.     I 


294  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

suppose,"  turning  to  Gunning,  "you  don't  want  to  buy 
a  rubber  plantation?" 

"No,  thanks.    I  am  a  tourist,  plain  and  simple." 

"Perhaps  Mrs.  Gunning  would  like  to  motor  out  to 
Black  Hill  and  see  the  harvest?"  suggested  Hars- 
carnp,  who  liked  Daffy. 

"Oh,  I  should  love  it !" 

"It's  a  pretty  place,  and  it's  rather  interesting  the 
way  the  trees  are  tapped,  if  one's  never  seen  it.  By 
Jove,"  added  Skene  animatedly,  "I  wish  I  had  a  few 
thousands,  and  I'd  buy  Black  Hill.  It's  one  of  the  very 
best  plantations  in  the  island,  and  rubber  is  going  up 
as  sure  as  eggs  is  eggs." 

"Going  up  where?"  inquired  Daffy. 

He  laughed  and  explained,  to  her  further  bewilder- 
ment. After  dinner  they  went  out  into  the  garden 
and  listened  to  the  band  playing  under  a  huge  and 
beautiful  tree. 

It  was  a  very  pretty  scene,  and  Nicko  Skene  sat  by 
Daffy  and  told  her  stories  about  the  island. 

Before  the  party  broke  up  it  was  settled  on  the 
following  Thursday  the  Harscamps  and  Skene  were 
to  take  the  Gunnings  to  their  tea  plantation,  as  Gun- 
ning found  Black  Hill  too  far  away  for  Daffy,  for  a 
day  or  two. 

"You'll  like  it,"  Skene  told  Daffy  as  he  walked  by 
her  to  her  rickshaw.  "It's  a  lovely  place.  I  say,"  he 
added  boyishly,  "I  am  glad  you  lost  your  ring  and 
that  I  found  it." 

"Are  you?    Why?" 

"Weh1,  it  seems  a  good  omen  for  our  friendship, 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  295 

you  to  lose  something  valuable  and  me  to  restore  it  to 
you." 

They  shook  hands  and  Daffy  laughed. 

"I  literally  threw  it  at  you,"  she  answered.  "You 
really  couldn't  restore  it  to  me." 

"I  don't  know.  I  might  have  kept  it,  remember! 
A  big  diamond  is  a  great  temptation  to  a  poor  devil 
like  me!" 

They  were  still  laughing  as  the  rickshaws  rolled 
away. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

IT  HAS  been  said  that  Daffy  alone  among  the 
three  sisters  was  a  flirt.  Psychologically,  this  is 
not  so  strange  as  it  at  first  appears.  Sylvia 
was  too  stupid,  Susan  too  tragically  bent  on  get- 
ting from  life  that  which  she  coveted  to  be  appealed 
to  by  the  amusement  in  question.  Whereas  Daffy, 
too  plain  to  attract  by  her  looks  alone,  too  interested 
in  people  to  be  passive,  naturally,  if  only  half-con- 
sciously,  exerted  her  powers  to  please  every  one,  man, 
woman  or  child,  who  pleased  her.  Hitherto  she  had 
had  but  few  occasions  to  exercise  her  talents  in  this 
fascinating  direction,  but  now  the  easy-going  island 
customs  made  this  practice  very  easy,  and  Nicko  found 
himself  frankly  welcome  at  Moonflowers  and  his  atten- 
tions accepted  with  a  demure  mischievousness  that 
partly  cheered  his  weary  spirit. 

Gunning,  as  usual,  was  busy.  He  had  not  wished  to 
come  to  Ceylon,  but  now  that  he  was  there  he  could  not, 
as  he  naturally  put  it  to  himself,  waste  all  his  time. 
So  for  many  hours  every  day  Daffy  was  left  to  her- 
self while  her  husband  wrote  useful  but  very  dull  arti- 
cles for  Parliamentary  use  about  the  island  and  its 
industries.  Gunning  was  glad  that  his  wife  found 
amusement  in  Skene's  always  available  society.  He 
himself  had  talked  very  little  with  the  younger  man, 

296 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  297 

but  he  knew  that  every  house  in  the  place  was  open  to 
him  and  that  he  was  technically  a  gentleman. 

"Isn't  he  beautiful,  Hughie?"  Daffy  asked  once, 
and  her  husband  laughed. 

"He  is — very  beautiful,  indeed,  my  dear.  Does  he 
make  love  to  you?" 

"A  little — make-believe  love." 

Which  perfectly  true  statement  satisfied  Gunning 
and  sent  him  back  to  his  work  with  a  comfortable  feel- 
ing that  Daffy  was  amused,  much  as  a  mother  might 
have  left  her  child  with  a  harmless,  unbreakable  toy. 
And  Skene,  who  was  extremely  hard  up  and  lived  while 
in  town  in  a  very  small  room  high  up  in  a  second-rate 
hotel,  was  more  than  glad  to  have  a  new  pair  of  eyes 
to  look  into,  a  new  table  at  which  to  satisfy  his  excel- 
lent and  expensive  appetite. 

It  pleased  him  to  be  accepted  unquestioningly  at  his 
own  valuation,  and  he  was  indeed  very  charming  and 
quite  irreproachable  that  first  fortnight.  In  the  shady 
drawing  room  they  used  to  sit,  and  very  often  he  read 
aloud  to  her  or  they  arranged  flowers  in  various  vases 
— a  graceful  act  in  which  he  excelled.  When  he  sang 
it  was  chiefly  for  his  own  amusement,  unless  he  sang 
"Araby." 

He  chaffed  her  openly  about  her  musical  ignorance 
and  in  return  she  teased  him  for  posing  at  the  piano. 
They  were  very  happy.  Once  he  made  her  sit  still  for 
a  whole  day  while  he  sketched  her.  The  sketch  was 
very  bad  and  he  tore  it  up,  but  it  served  his  purpose, 
and  he  enjoyed  watching  her  queer  little  pointed  face. 

Her  clothes,  "real  proper  clothes,"  he  called  them, 


298  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

in  contradistinction  to  the  confections  of  the  native 
tailors,  pleased  him,  and  the  British  ways  of  her,  un- 
dimmed  by  tropical  suns. 

From  the  room  he  had  adopted  as  a  study  Gunning 
used  to  hear  them  laugh,  and  was  well  pleased.  At 
last  came  the  often-put-off  day  for  the  visit  to  Narar- 
villa,  Harscamp's  tea  plantation.  Harscamp  had  a 
motor  and  drove  it  himself,  Daffy  beside  him,  Skene 
sitting  at  her  feet.  In  the  back  seat  Mrs.  Harscamp 
and  Gunning  sat  together. 

Past  Mount  Lavinia,  with  its  lovely  crooked  palms 
etched  against  the  sky,  and  thence  into  the  wild  coun- 
try, they  went ;  past  temples  the  paths  to  which  were 
scattered  with  the  white  flower  petals  of  offerings; 
through  villages  where  brown  children  gleaming  with 
cocoa-oil  strutted  about  as  naked  as  they  had  been 
born ;  they  met  a  native  wedding,  all  banners  and  gilt 
paper;  were  scowled  at  by  tonsured  and  villainous- 
looking  priests  in  yellow  robes,  each  one  carrying  a 
palm-leaf  fan,  behind  which  they  were  supposed  to 
hide  their  sacred  faces  from  profane  sights. 

And  once  a  huge  tamil  climbed  a  king  palm  by 
means  of  a  short  rope  holding  his  feet  together,  and 
bringing  down  a  cocoanut,  cut  the  top  off  it,  wiped  the 
edges  of  the  hole  with  his  filthy  turban  and  offered  it 
to  the  ladies  to  drink. 

There  were  very  few  cars  in  Ceylon,  and  in  the  re- 
moter villages  the  excitement  was  great  as  they  drew 
up  for  water. 

And  Daffy  loved  the  babies,  fat,  small  people  with 
enormously  distended  stomachs,  around  which,  sole 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  299 

garment,  was  bound  the  red  thread  by  which  their 
mother  measured  their  food-containing  capacity. 
Skene,  always  voluble,  always  agreeable,  always  ready 
to  do  small  services  for  people,  was  a  charming  com- 
panion. He  had  the  gift  of  giving  out  scraps  of 
amusing  information,  and  he  it  was,  rather  than  the 
somewhat  heavy-minded  Harscamp,  who  told  Gunning 
the  things  he  wished  to  know  about  rubber  and  tea. 
Gunning  liked  him,  looked  on  him  as  a  boy,  and  felt  in 
his  company  much  the  sense  of  relaxation  busy  men 
sometimes  find  in  that  of  pretty,  rather  silly  women. 

The  party  left  Colorado  at  six  in  the  morning  and 
at  about  eleven  stopped  at  the  tea  plantation  for 
luncheon. 

The  owners  of  the  place,  two  red-faced  Yorkshire- 
men,  gave  of  their  best  to  the  welcome  guests,  and 
when  the  meal  was  over  took  the  Gunnings  and  Skene 
to  the  long  wooden  building  where  the  fresh  picked 
tea  leaves  go  in  at  one  door  to  come  out  at  the  other 
end,  the  shriveled  scraps  beloved  of  us  at  home. 

The  heat  was  great  and  Gunning  hurried  through 
the  different  rooms  as  quickly  as  he  could  past  the 
squatting  be-ringed  brown  women  who  first  sort  the 
leaves,  past  the  great  sifters  shaking  to  and  fro. 

But  Daffy  loved  the  heat  and  the  strong  aromatic 
smell.  She  and  Skene  lingered  in  the  sifting  room. 

"You  like  it?" 

"Yes;  don't  you?" 

He  made  a  grimace.  "Too  used  to  its  charm,  I  sup- 
pose. I've  been  five  years  at  my  rotten  little  place, 
and  I'm  poorer  now  than  I  was  when  I  first  came  out. 


300  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

That  doesn't  exactly  arouse  a  passion  of  enthusiasm 
for  tea  in  me." 

Daffy  looked  at  him  as  he  leaned  against  the  wall. 
The  air  was  full  of  impalpable  tea  dust,  through 
which  the  sun  made  a  very  beautiful  atmosphere. 

"How  did  you  happen  to  come  out?"  she  asked. 

"I  didn't  happen  to  at  all.  My  people  sent  me  to 
get  rid  of  me." 

His  handsome  face  was  very  dark  as  he  spoke,  his 
eyebrows  drawn  down. 

Daffy  was  sorry  for  him.    "How  nasty  of  them !" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  I  was  a  bit  of  a  nuisance — 
however,  here  I  am,  and  here  I  suppose  I  must  stay." 
His  eyes  rested  wonderingly  on  her  upturned  face  for 
a  minute,  and  he  added,  "Upon  my  word,  I  believe 
you're  sorry." 

"Of  course  I'm  sorry." 

He  was  attracted  by  her,  but  the  truth  is  that  she 
was  far  more  attracted  by  him.  In  the  first  place  she 
passionately  admired  beauty,  and  Nicko  Skene's 
beauty  could  be  divined  not  even  by  those  who  best 
knew  him.  In  his  way  he  was  as  stupid  as  Sylvia. 
Daffy,  moreover,  had  never  been  in  love,  she  had  never 
even  had  the  feminine  equivalent  for  calf  love. 

So  it  was  perfectly  natural  that  when,  there  in  the 
strange  surroundings  of  the  tea  house,  the  broiling 
sun  gilding  his  hair  and  his  slightly  hollow  cheeks 
and  deepening  the  color  of  his  wonderful  eyes,  the 
young  man  began  to  make  love  to  her,  something 
within  her  should  instantly  respond. 

It  was  so  natural  for  him  to  make  love  to  an  attrac- 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  301 

tive  woman  that  he  hardly  resisted  at  all.  Why 
should  he  resist?  He  meant  no  real  harm;  he  had 
nothing  to  do ;  his  mind,  when  unoccupied  by  imme- 
diate amusement  of  some  kind,  was  a  turmoil  of  dis- 
content and  worry.  There  he  was,  there  she  was,  and 
they  were  alone. 

He  burst  out  into  a  rhapsody  of  self-pity,  described 
the  misery  of  his  solitude  at  his  plantation,  the  ecstasy 
of  his  joy  in  finding  her,  his  happiness  in  this  little 
journey,  so  soon  to  be  over. 

He  did  not  approach  her,  nor  did  he  utter  the  word 
love,  but  it  was  love-making,  and  Daffy  did  not  repulse 
him.  She  had  seen  Gunning's  utter  devotion  to  her 
sister,  she  had  seen  Ginestra's  southern  intensity  and 
fire,  she  had  heard  old  Mr.  Wace  talk  of  his  love  for 
his  dead  wife.  But  hitherto  no  one  had  loved  her. 
Her  only  proposal  before  Gunning's  had  been  made 
by  Macclesfield,  a  mere  boy  who  trembled  at  his  own 
words ;  and  Gunning's  had  not  been  romantic,  in  spite 
of  the  episode  of  the  buried  bouquet. 

And  now  here  was  this  magnificent,  beautiful  man 
telling  her,  the  plain  Daffy,  that  he  loved  her. 

"You  are  not  angry?"  he  added  anxiously,  as  her 
answer  failed  to  come. 

"Angry  ?    No — I  am  glad  you  like  me." 

Like  had  been  his  word,  as  it  was  hers. 

"Amuses  you,  eh?"  he  went  on,  disappointed 
by  her  manner,  and,  lion-like,  lashing  himself  into  a 
fury. 

Then  Daffy  looked  up  at  him  and  mentally  he 
started. 


302  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

£— 

"I  am  not  amused  at  all,"  she  responded,  "but  I 

did  not  understand  why  you  should  like  me.     I  am  so 

ugly." 

This  he  believed  to  be  affectation,  for  she  was  not 
at  all  ugly  to  him. 

"You  know  quite  well  that  you  are  not  ugly,"  he 
retorted  impatiently,  "and  you  know  quite  well 
that — "  As  he  spoke  a  half-breed  youth  who  was  em- 
ployed as  a  clerk  in  the  shipping  department  came  in 
to  tell  Daffy  that  Gunning  wished  her  to  come  back  to 
the  house. 

"Mr.  Gunning  says  it's  too  hot  here,"  the  messenger 
added,  showing  all  his  teeth. 

"That'll  do,  thanks."  Skene's  manner  was  very 
short. 

"You  may  go.    We  will  come  at  once." 

They  went  out  through  the  packing  room  among 
the  crowds  of  be-ringed  and  be-braceletted  native 
women,  and  as  they  came  out  into  the  blazing  sun  and 
Skene  put  up  her  green-lined  umbrella,  Daffy  asked 
in  good  faith,  "Why  were  you  so  cross  with  that 
pretty  boy?" 

"Because  the  pretty  boy  was  impertinent.  Beasts 
they  are,  all  of  'em,  every  single  one,"  he  added,  his 
brows  down. 

"Who?    Natives?" 

"He  isn't  a  native.  Half-breeds,  I  mean.  They  are 
all  liars  and  sneaks  and  would  be  bullies  if  they 
dared." 

"I  have  noticed  that  all  of  our  Englishmen  who  live 
out  here  despise  them,  poor  things,  and  it  seems  rather 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  303 

hard.  Some  of  them  must  be  nice,  and  they  are  often 
good  looking." 

They  were  going  through  the  dried-up  garden  of 
the  overseer's  wife,  a  piteous  place,  speaking  of  utter 
discouragement  and  slackness  on  the  part  of  the 
owner. 

Skene  didn't  answer,  and  Daffy  went  on,  "I  saw  a 
perfectly  beautiful  young  man  the  other  day — Mr. 
Carstair  said  he  is  half  Portuguese — Pedro  some- 
thing or  other.  I  have  rarely  seen  a  handsomer  man 
or  woman,  either,  and  my  two  sisters  are  remarkably 
beautiful.  No  one  ever  lived  who  is  quite  so  beautiful 
as  Sylvia." 

Skene,  who  didn't  quite  see  what  Sylvia's  looks  had 
to  do  with  the  half-breeds  of  Ceylon,  made  no  answer. 
Daffy  wondered  why  he  always  looked  black  at  any 
mention  of  black  blood,  but  she  was  far  more  interested 
in  the  state  of  her  own  feelings  and  did  not  again 
speak  till  they  had  reached  the  bungalow  and  were 
seated  in  the  comparatively  cool  depths  of  the  veran- 
da, where  the  rest  of  the  party  were  partaking  of 
pale  drinks  in  tall  glasses  full  of  ice. 

Her  face,  usually  so  white,  was  a  little  flushed  and 
her  eyes  were  bright. 

"Are  you  all  right,  Daffy?"  Gunning  asked,  look- 
ing at  her.  "It  was  too  hot  in  the  tea  house — don't 
drink  your  lemon  squash  till  you  are  a  little  cooler." 

Daffy  nodded  and  sat  silent,  while  Mrs.  Robertson, 
the  overseer's  wife,  complained. 

She  complained  of  the  heat,  of  the  rains,  of  the  lack 
of  neighbors,  of  the  quality  of  the  neighbors  she  did 


304.  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

have ;  of  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  good  meat,  of  the 
iniquity  of  native  servants,  of  the  way  kid  gloves  and 
silk  stuffs  rotted  in  the  humidity,  of  the  way  her  hair 
came  out,  of  the  delicacy  of  her  children,  of  her  hus- 
band's callousness  to  her  sufferings,  of  the  danger  of 
cobras  in  the  neighborhood. 

There  was  nothing,  Daffy  thought,  that  God  had 
thought  well  to  do  for  Ceylon  that  satisfied  the  yellow- 
faced  Mrs.  Robertson,  with  her  monotonous  whining 
voice.  And  because  Mrs.  Robertson  was  yellow-faced 
and  had  a  disagreeable  voice,  DafFy,  the  beauty-mad, 
felt  very  little  pity,  or  indeed  anything  but  impatient 
disgust  for  the  poor  woman's  miseries. 

Skene  drank  his  peg  and  said  little.  Mrs.  Harscamp 
was  asleep  upstairs,  and  Harscamp  had  had  several 
pegs  and  was  drowsy.  It  was  a  very  dull  party  indeed. 

When  presently  every  one  went  up  to  rest  Daffy  sat 
by  the  window  in  her  room  and  for  an  hour  dreamed 
waking  dreams. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

THEY  returned  to  Moonflowers  the  next  day 
but  one,  but  Daffy  saw  nothing  of  Nicko 
Skene  for  nearly  a  week.  He  had  gone  up 
country  to  his  own  plantation,  a  miserable 
place  where,  she  knew,  failure  was  writ  large  on  every- 
thing. 

And  in  his  absence  she  missed  him ;  missed  him  more 
than  she  had  ever  in  her  life  missed  any  one  or  any 
thing. 

It  was  unfortunate  that  at  this  juncture  Hugh 
Gunning  should  have  been  particularly  engrossed  with 
his  own  personal  interests.  A  certain  political  plan 
of  large  immediate  import  and  larger  potentialities 
for  the  future  had  been  submitted  to  him  by  his  polit- 
ical chief,  and  as  it  meant  upheaval  to  a  certain  ex- 
tent of  his  present  course  of  life,  his  brain  was  busy. 
Daffy's  slight  petulance,  a  thing  quite  new  to  her,  he 
set  down  naturally  enough  to  the  heat. 

"Do  try  to  keep  quiet  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  my 
dear,"  he  said  kindly,  his  blue  eyes  absent,  "you  look 
rather  seedy  and  I  believe  your  little  face  is  smaller 
than  ever!" 

Daffy,  who  as  yet  had  not  arrived  at  a  point  where 
feelings  are  complicated,  nodded  indifferently. 

"I  will,"  she  answered,  like  a  child  humoring  a  well- 
305 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 

meaning  but  rather  boring  parent,  and  he  went  back 
to  his  room  satisfied. 

Skene  wrote  twice.  One  letter  simply  excused  him- 
self for  not  having  come  to  say  good-bye,  but  the 
other  was  longer.  "I  am  a  fool,  I  suppose,"  it  went 
on,  "(but  that  is  nothing  new)  and  I  loathe  being 
here  even  worse  than  usual.  I  want  to  be  back  in 
Colombo.  I  want  to  come  to  Moonflowers,  I  want  to 
see  you.  Don't  be  angry  with  me,  Daffy.  I  can't  help 
it.  I'll  stop  now,  or  I'll  say  too  much.  Yours,  N.  S." 

He  had  never  called  her  Daffy.  For  a  long  time 
she  sat  with  his  letter  in  her  lap.  Then  she  rose  and 
going  to  the  table  selected  a  very  perfect  sheet  of 
paper  and  wrote  what  was  her  first  love  letter;  wrote 
it  without  a  qualm  of  conscience,  her  husband  only 
two  rooms  away  from  her ! 

"I  am  not  angry,"  she  began  abruptly,  "and  I  am 
glad  you  miss  me.  I  miss  you,  too.  I  have  nothing 
on  earth  to  do,  and  it  is  so  dull  here  without  you.  I 
never  said  you  might  call  me  Daffy,  but  you  may. 
Mrs.  Harscamp  is  still  at  Newraglia"  (she  never 
learned  to  spell  the  word)  "and  the  Lovels  did  not 
come  on  the  Moravia  after  all.  We  dined  last  night 
at  the  G.  O.  H.  with  some  people  Hughie  knows.  I 
teas  so  bored,  as  they  all  talked  politics.  Come  back 
soon.  Daffy." 

This  communication  had  the  effect  of  keeping  Skene 
two  days  longer  up  country  than  he  had  intended  to 
stay.  He  was  a  rather  knowing  young  man,  and 
chuckled  to  himself  as  he  read  what  Mrs.  Gunning  had 
written. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  307 

So  far  not  much  harm  had  been  done,  but  trouble 
was  brewing,  and  if  Daffy  had  been  a  trifle  more  at- 
tractive to  him  it  is  hard  to  say  what  might  not  have 
happened.  But  he  was  only  just  sufficiently  drawn 
to  her  to  make  a  flirtation  a  pleasant  pastime.  "Damn 
it  all !  why  can't  I  half  care  for  her,"  he  growled  im- 
patiently. "Lots  of  fellows  would — "  He  swore  at 
a  memory  that  rose  in  his  mind  and  then  took  a 
drink. 

"Skene  is  back,"  Gunning  told  his  wife  two  days 
later.  "I  met  him  at  the  club  and  asked  him  to  dine." 

"Good." 

"Whom  else  can  you  get?  Harscamp  says  his  wife 
is  coming  to-morrow,  but  for  to-night  I  can't  think  of 
any  one." 

"I  don't  want  any  one  but  Mr.  Skene.  He  doesn't 
have  to  be  amused,  and  it's  too  hot  to  talk  much." 

At  half -past  eight  Daffy,  all  in  white,  stood  on  the 
veranda  waiting  for  her  guest.  There  was  in  her 
breast  a  pleasant  flutter  and  her  cheeks  burned. 

"I  am  in  love,"  she  said  to  herself,  "and  I  like  it." 

Her  thoughts  absolutely  went  no  further  than  this. 
Gunning  and  Skene  did  not  appear  to  her  in  juxtapo- 
sition ;  Gunning,  indeed,  seemed  to  have  very  little  if 
anything  to  do  with  the  matter.  If  he  had  been  her 
father  he  could  not  in  her  mind  have  stood  more  aside. 
This  may  have  been  simply  because  she  had  never 
loved  him,  or  it  may  have  been  partly  the  result  of  her 
life-long  knowledge  of  his  love  for  her  sister. 

When  Skene,  on  finding  her  in  the  fragrant  warm 
dusk,  tried  to  lose  his  head  a  little  and  kissed  her 


308  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

hands,  she  gave  a  happy  laugh  and  drew  him  into  the 
house. 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  back,"  she  said, 
and  the  catch  in  her  voice  stirred  him  a  little.  Emo- 
tionally, he  was  rather  vibrant  at  all  times  and  his 
looks  were  of  the  type  that  express  far  more  than  they 
ever  really  mean. 

"I  shouldn't  have  come."  The  cliche  rose  naturally 
to  his  accustomed  lips,  but  she  could  not  know  that. 

"Why?"  she  asked  in  perfectly  real  surprise. 

"Because — Gunning — "  Was  she  half  a  fool,  he 
was  wondering,  or  as  deep  a  little  devil  as  he  had  ever 
met? 

At  the  door  she  turned  and  looked  at  him,  her  eyes 
lambent.  "Hughie  doesn't  love  me,"  she  said 
simply. 

No  woman  on  earth  but  Christopher  Lambe's 
daughter  could  have  said  it,  but  Skene,  for  his  part, 
of  course,  couldn't  know  this. 

Deciding  that  she  was  the  deepest  little  devil  he  had 
ever  met,  and  feeling  with  relief  that  the  fact  cleared 
his  way  and  made  whatever  he  might  choose  to  do 
quite  excusable,  he  followed  her  into  the  drawing 
room  where  Gunning  was  reading  the  last  Fort- 
nightly. 

"How  d'ye  do,  Skene?" 

"How  are  you?" 

They  shook  hands  and  then  Gunning  began  speak- 
ing of  a  subject  new  to  Daffy. 

"Did  you  see  your  friend?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.    It  will  be  all  right  for  to-morrow.    He  says 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  309 

there  are  a  lot  of  'em  in  the  paddy-fields,  so  we  ought 
to  have  a  good  day." 

"A  good  day  for  what  ?"  Daffy  asked,  sitting  down 
and  starting  an  electric  fan. 

"Snipe.    Mr.  Skene  is  taking  me  out  to-morrow." 

"Good  gracious,  Hughie,  can  you  shoot?" 

Gunning  laughed  with  the  good  temper  of  a  man 
who  can  shoot. 

"A  little,  dear." 

While  the  two  were  discussing  the  possibilities  of 
the  next  day  she  watched  them.  Gunning's  rather 
stern  face  did  not  gain  by  contrast  with  Skene's,  whose 
perfect  features  were  saved  by  the  tropical  sun  from 
any  hint  of  effeminacy.  For  all  his  beauty,  he  looked 
"hard,"  and  compared  to  the  energetic  modeling  of 
his  chin,  Gunning's  looked  almost  indefinite.  Daffy, 
like  most  people  who  know  nothing  of  physiognomy, 
believed  very  much  in  the  meaning  of  chins.  There 
was  to  every  one  a  look  in  Skene  of  beautiful  alertness 
that  had  no  bearing  whatever  on  his  actual  character. 

"He  looks  as  if  his  mind  were  on  tiptoe,"  a  fat,  red 
German  scientist  had  once  said  of  him,  and  the  phrase 
had  stuck  to  him.  "Tiptoe  Skene"  was  still  his  nick- 
name. By  the  side  of  his  radiant  youth  Hugh  Gun- 
ning at  thirty-seven  looked  a  settled,  rather  dull  mid- 
dle-aged man.  And  this  Daffy  realized  strongly. 

Gunning's  mistake  had  been  in  allowing  her  to  go 
her  own  way  since  their  marriage.  He  knew  her  own 
way  to  be  harmless,  and  believed  that  he  acted  in  kind- 
ness, but  no  own  way  can  be  good  for  a  young  wife, 
and  now,  unrecognized  by  himself,  there  lay  at  the 


310  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

back  of  her  mood  a  dangerous  feeling  that  Hughie 
wouldn't  care.  After  dinner  Skene  played  and  after 
a  bit  Gunning  went  back  to  his  papers. 

The  drawing  room  was  a  cool  and  pleasant  place, 
full  of  the  scent  of  flowers ;  the  lights  were  low ;  Daffy 
sat  in  a  comfortable  chair  by  the  window  listening  to 
the  music,  the  waves  of  the  sea,  and  the  things  in  her 
own  heart. 

"Daffy !" 

The  name  sounded  very  sweet  as  he  said  it,  and  as 
he  went  on  playing  she  was  not  obliged  to  answer. 

She  looked  up  and  met  his  great  eyes  fixed  on  her. 
He  was  no  drunkard,  but  he  had  dined  well,  and  every 
kind  of  luxury  had  its  effect  on  him.  The  world  was 
made  for  pleasant  things :  good  food,  and  wine,  and 
music,  and  love-making.  Presently,  his  eyes  still  on 
hers,  the  music  ceased  and  without  moving  he  spoke 
again : 

"You  don't  mind  my  calling  you  Daffy?" 

"No.     I — said  you  might." 

"You  look  so  pretty  in  that  frock.  You  look  so 
young." 

But  she  was  too  young  to  appreciate  the  latter  com- 
pliment. 

"I  am  young.    But — do  I  really  look  pretty?" 

"You  know  you  do." 

She  shook  her  head. 

"You've  said  that  before.  I  don't  know  it.  I've 
always  been  ugly,  and — I  never  minded  before.  But 
if  I  look  pretty  now,  I  am  glad." 

"Are  you?     Why?" 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  Sll 

He  fully  believed  that  she  was  making  love  to  him, 
whereas  she  was  as  convinced  that  he  was  making  love 
to  her. 

"Because,"  she  answered,  "I  like  you  to  like  me." 

She  took  up  a  little  tortoise-shell  box,  in  the  lid  of 
which  was  inset  a  slit  of  mirror,  and  looked  at  herself. 

"I  can  see  my  own  eye,  a  rather  nice  brown  eye. 
Now  I  can  see  my  nose.  My  nose,  of  course,  really  is 
good.  It's  even  better  than  Sylvia's.  But,  oh,  my  big 
mouth.  It  isn't  even  very  red,  like  girls  in  books, 
and  then  I  have  no  color,  and  I  am  so  little.  I  am," 
with  disgust,  "a  shrimp." 

"You  are  a  dear,"  he  returned,  taking  the  box  and 
her  hand  in  his,  and  surer  than  ever  that  she  was  en- 
couraging him. 

At  that  minute  Gunning  came  in  at  a  window  the 
other  side  of  the  room,  and  Skene,  knowing  that  his 
love  words  could  not  have  been  heard,  went  on,  look- 
ing at  the  box,  "got  it  in  the  Pettah,  did  you?" 

"What?"  said  Daffy  bluntly.  "Oh,  the  box.  No, 
Hughie  gave  it  to  me — where  did  you  get  this  little 
box,  Hughie?" 

Gunning  looked  at  the  two  for  a  minute  and  then 
sat  down. 

"I've  forgotten — one  of  the  shops  near  the 
G.  O.  H.,  I  think.  Rather  pretty,  isn't  it,  Skene?" 

And  Skene  knew  that  he  had  seen  him  holding 
Daffy's  hand  and  said  "damn"  to  himself.  Gunning 
did  not  leave  the  room  again,  and  when  the  arrange- 
ments were  completed  about  the  shooting  the  next  day 
Skene  took  his  leave. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"Daffy." 

"Yes,  Hughie?" 

"You  mustn't  let  that  chap  make  love  to  you." 

She  looked  up  at  him,  not  quite  liking  the  tone  in 
his  voice. 

"Why  not?"  she  asked. 

"Why  not?    Good  heavens,  can't  you  see  why  not?" 

She  walked  to  the  window  and  stood  looking  out  at 
the  sea.  For  a  moment  she  nearly  decided  to  tell  him 
that  she  and  Skene  loved  each  other.  Then  she 
changed  her  mind. 

"He  was  holding  your  hand  when  I  came  in,"  went 
on  Gunning  patiently.  He  was  a  little  shocked,  but 
not  at  all  jealous,  and  felt  himself  to  be  performing  a 
duty. 

"Yes." 

"Well — you  mustn't  let  him,  that's  all.  Surely  even 
you  can  understand  that,"  he  broke  out,  suddenly 
bored,  his  patience  flying.  If  he  was  going  to  be 
obliged  to  watch  her  an  end  had  come  to  his  peace ! 

Daffy  turned,  blazing  with  rage  as  sudden  as  his 
impatience. 

"Even  I?  Am  I  half-witted,  then,  that  you  say 
'even'?" 

"I  didn't  mean  that — you  know  perfectly  well  that 
I  didn't.  Don't  be  absurd." 

"Half-witted  and  absurd.     Go  on  !" 

Her  disproportionate  anger  surprised  him.  He  had 
not  seen  her  in  a  temper  for  years,  and  the  recollection 
of  the  last  occasion  coming  to  him  suddenly — it  was 
connected  with  the  amputation  by  Susan  of  a  favorite 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  318 

doll's  nether  limbs — he  unfortunately  laughed.  She 
was  so  utterly  childish! 

When  after  a  pause  she  turned  and  he  saw  her  face 
he  realized  his  mistake.  For  the  first  time  it  was  not 
childish.  It  was  the  face  of  an  exasperated  and  indig- 
nant woman,  and  he  marveled. 

"Good  night,"  she  said  shortly,  "I  am  going  to 
bed." 

She  marched  out  of  the  room  without  another  word, 
and  he  stood  for  some  minutes  with  his  rather  slow 
mind  in  a  state  of  utter  bewilderment.  They  had  been 
married  nearly  three  years  and  this  was  their  first 
quarrel.  There  was  about  it  none  of  the  charm  he  had 
heard  attributed  to  lovers'  quarrels. 

"But  then,"  he  told  himself  rather  ruefully,  "we  are 
not  lovers.  This  is  a — what's  it  they  say? — a  con- 
j  ugal  dispute.  Oh,  Lord !" 

He  knocked  on  Daffy's  door,  but  she  maintained  an 
unbroken  silence,  and  after  a  time  he  went  back  to  his 
study. 

"I  don't  understand  her,  after  all,"  he  admitted  to 
himself.  "I've  hurt  her  feelings  and  she  resents  it. 
But,  after  all,  the  fellow  did  have  hold  of  her  hand !" 


THE  next  morning  Gunning  and  his  wife 
breakfasted  together  as  usual  at  eight. 
Daffy  gave  no  sign  of  remembering  their 
quarrel.  She  looked  very  tired  and  he  knew 
she  had  not  slept,  but  in  answer  to  his  inquiries  replied 
merely  that  she  was  quite  well.  With  two  Cingalee 
boys  waiting  on  them,  padding  in  and  out  of  the  room 
on  their  noiseless  bare  feet,  no  more  was  said. 

When  Gunning  started  off  in  a  rickshaw  for  the 
club,  where  he  was  to  meet  Skene,  Daffy,  as  usual,  ac- 
companied him  to  the  door  and  stood,  a  little  pale  blue 
figure  on  the  veranda,  waving  her  hand  to  him  as  he 
turned  out  into  the  road. 

"Queer  little  soul  she  is,"  he  thought  as  he  was 
whirled  along  in  a  cloud  of  red  dust.  "I  suppose  the 
truth  is  he  had  just  grabbed  her  hand  and  I  came  in 
before  she  had  time  to  snub  him.  If  that  is  the  case 
she  of  course  resented  my  saying  what  I  did.  Al- 
though," he  went  on  just  as  usual,  even  to  himself, 
"I  had  a  right  to  object  to  what  I  saw,  and  she  should 
have  told  me  if  I  was  too  hasty."  If  he  had  half  liked 
Skene,  the  chances  are  that  he  would  have  said  a  few 
words  of  reproof  to  the  younger  man,  whom  he  looked 
on  as  a  mere  boy.  But  for  some  time  past  a  feeling 
of  distrust  had  been  growing  in  his  mind — something 

314 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  315 

he  did  not  attempt  to  define,  but  of  which  he  was  con- 
scious every  now  and  then,  and  this  prevented  his 
taking  any  open  action.  With  a  little  bored  sigh  he 
realized  that  he  must  henceforth  keep  an  eye  on  the 
chap. 

"If  he  doesn't  behave  I  shall  tell  him  not  to  come 
again,"  he  decided  as  he  drew  up  at  the  club  steps  with 
a  jerk  that,  in  his  absent  mood,  nearly  shot  him 
out. 

There  was  in  him  no  more  distrust  of  Daffy  than 
there  was  jealousy.  If  he  had  been  forced  to  analyze 
his  opinion  of  his  wife  it  would  have  been  summed  up 
in  the  words,  "She's  quite  all  right,  poor  little  dear, 
only  so  awfully  young!" 

"Yes,  sir,  Mr.  Skene  was  ready,  sir."  The  servant 
disappeared  and  in  a  few  minutes  the  two  men  were  on 
their  way  to  the  station,  where  they  had  a  twenty- 
minute  journey  to  their  destination.  Skene,  looking 
his  very  best  in  a  very  ancient,  beautifully  cut  shoot- 
ing jacket,  showed  no  signs  of  constraint.  He  was 
radiantly  cheerful — as,  to  do  him  justice,  he  still  had 
the  grace  of  being  on  a  fine  morning.  He  was  a 
rascal  of  many  endearing  little  ways.  This,  too,  was 
one  of  his  good  days,  and  Gunning  felt  his  dislike 
again  waning.  "After  all,"  he  thought,  half  ashamed 
of  his  secret  ungraciousness  toward  his  painstaking 
host  of  the  day,  "I  may  be  quite  wrong.  His  good 
looks  are  of  course  against  him,  but — well,  I  hope  I 
am  wrong."  Harscamp,  who  was  at  the  station  to 
meet  his  wife  on  her  return  home,  sped  them  on  their 
way  and  later  told  his  wife  about  it. 


316  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"Gunning  seems  to  like  Nicko,"  he  said.  "At  first 
I  thought  he  didn't." 

"At  first,"  corrected  Mrs.  Harscamp,  who  looked 
much  younger  for  her  stay  in  the  cool  air,  "he  did. 
Like  Nicko,  I  mean.  Then  he  began  to — not  to  dis- 
like him,  but  to  distrust  him." 

"Nothing  original  in  that,"  laughed  Harscamp. 
"Poor  old  Nicko  must  be  used  to  rousing  that  partic- 
ular feeling." 

She  shot  a  peculiar  glance  at  him.  "Yet  you  always 
trusted  him,"  she  said. 

"Not  I!  I  rather  like  him,  and  I  am  more  than 
rather  sorry  for  him.  But  as  to  trust — no,  no,  my  dear ! 
Two  years  ago,  when  the  young  scamp  was  always 
hanging  round  you,  do  you  think  I  trusted  him?"  His 
big  red  hand  closed  partly  over  her  little  gloved  ones. 
"My  trust  was  in  you,  old  girl.  That's  different !" 

Mrs.  Harscamp  was  silent  during  the  rest  of  the 
drive  home. 

Meantime,  Daffy,  having  come  to  a  conclusion,  set 
to  work  to  carry  it  out.  All  night  she  had  sat  by  her 
window  thinking.  For  the  first  time  in  her  life  she 
was  in  love.  It  was  as  yet  puppy  love,  such  as  a  boy 
of  seventeen  might  feel,  but  as  such  love  is  to  a  boy  of 
seventeen  the  most  vital  thing  in  the  world,  so  was  this 
new  feeling  to  Daffy.  It  was  a  sacred,  splendid  thing, 
and  she  was  as  proud  of  it  as  if  she  had  been  un- 
married. 

In  her  short  life  she  had  seen  only  three  love  affairs 
— Sylvia's  two,  one  between  a  girl  and  a  young  Italian 
on  the  steamer  between  Vancouver  and  Yokohama. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  317 

And  these  three  love  affairs  had  all  forged  steadily 
ahead  toward  one  end :  marriage.  Marriage  had  been 
the  idea  in  the  minds  of  all  the  six  people  she  had  seen 
in  love,  and  young  Macclesfield  had  used  the  great 
word  with  regard  to  herself.  She  loved  Skene  and 
Skene  loved  her.  Therefore,  Skene  must  want  to 
marry  her.  To  her  it  all  seemed  quite  simple,  and  the 
most  beautiful  part  of  it  all  was  that  Hughie  wouldn't 
mind. 

"It's  too  bad  I  shall  have  to  be  divorced,"  she  told 
herself,  "but  that  won't  matter." 

The  phrase  recalled  old  Mr.  Wace  and  his  Lily. 
"It  didn't  matter!"  And  how  glad  her  old  friend 
would  be  when  he  knew  that  she,  too,  had  now  some 
one  for  whose  sake  she  felt  that  nothing  on  earth 
would  matter!  She  had  seen  the  old  pensioner  only 
half  a  dozen  times,  but  he  was  a  friend.  She  would 
write  and  tell  him  all  about  it.  Ringing  for  iced 
lemon  squash,  she  settled  herself  in  Gunning's  study, 
which  at  that  time  was  the  coolest  in  the  bungalow,' 
and  with  one  of  Gunning's  carefully  wiped  pens  she 
dipped  her  pen  into  Gunning's  inkpot  and  began. 

"Dear  Mr.  Wace,"  she  wrote  in  her  round,  boyish 
hand,  "I  wonder  how  you  are?  In  London,  of  course, 
it  is  beastly  now,  cold  and  wet  and  foggy,  but  here  in 
Ceylon  it  is  grilling,  and  the  sea  is  even  bluer  than 
my  Italian  sea,  and  the  flowers  are  glorious  and  make 
the  whole  place  smell  like  a  scent  factory. 

"I  am  quite  well  again  and  haven't  coughed  once. 
How  I  wish  your  poor  Lily  could  have  come  here." 
The  old  man's  age  and  her  as  great  youth  had  bridged 


318  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

over  the  years  since  Lily's  death  and  neither  of  them 
saw  any  discrepancy  in  her  speaking  of  the  dead 
woman  as  though  she  were  a  contemporary  of  her  own. 

"And  now,"  she  went  on  after  a  pause  during  which 
she  drew  little  daisies  on  the  blotting  paper,  "I  have 
some  news  for  you.  I  love  some  one  very  much.  He 
is  a  young  Englishman  who  has  a  tea  plantation  near 
here,  and  he  is  the  most  beautiful  person  in  the  world, 
after  my  sister  Sylvia.  I  fear  he  will  be  upset  because 
I  am  married,  but  that  really  doesn't  much  matter. 
My  husband,  luckily,  does  not  care  for  me,  and  I  don't 
blame  him.  I  am  much  too  stupid  for  such  a  clever 
man.  It  is  a  pity  he  didn't  marry  Susan,  the  clever 
one.  But  I  suppose  she  wouldn't  have  had  him.  Did 
she  ever  go  to  see  you?  She  said  she  wished  to  and 
that  she  would  take  you  some  books  and  some  fruit 
from  me.  Don't  forget  that  when  Lady  Archie  Bel- 
lasis  calls  on  you  it  is  my  sister — I  mean  to  say,  don't 
say  you  don't  know  her  and  refuse  to  let  her  in ! 

"Well,  to  go  back  to  Nicko  (that's  his  name,  Nich- 
olas Skene).  He  is  poor,  but  well-born,  and  has  the 
most  beautiful  manners  in  the  world.  I  am  so  proud 
that  he  should  love  me.  He  even  thinks  me  pretty. 
Isn't  that  nice  ? 

"Oh,  Mr.  Wace,  I  so  often  think  about  Lily  and 
you  and  her  saying  it  didn't  matter.  Now  I  know 
what  it  means  and  how  true  it  is.  Nothing  in  the 
world  matters  but  just  Nicko.  I'd  just  as  soon  be  a 
beggar  all  my  days  if  I  could  be  with  him.  I  have 
only  known  for  a  few  days  that  I  love  him,  and  to- 
night when  Hugh  comes  home  I  am  going  to  tell  him 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  319 

and  ask  him  to  divorce  me  at  once.  He  is  so  kind,  I 
am  sure  he  will  do  it  without  any  delay.  Nicko  and  I 
will  come  back  to  England  to  live,  for  we  hate  Ceylon. 
Poor  dear,  he  has  been  here  so  long.  My  father  will 
give  me  some  money,  I  am  sure,  and  we  will  buy  a 
little  house  where  the  hunting  is  good  and  live 
there." 

Thus  Daffy,  who  loathed  the  English  climate  and 
would  as  soon  have  attempted  to  ride  a  wild  elephant 
as  the  mildest  hunter  on  earth ! 

"We  were  to  have  gone  home  the  middle  of  April 
and  stopped  in  Italy  on  the  way,  but  now,  no  doubt, 
we  shall  have  to  come  sooner  on  account  of  the  di- 
vorce, and  I  shall  see  you  soon. 

"It  will  be  good  to  have  a  long  talk  with  you  again. 
My  love  to  you,  dear  Mr.  Wace,  and  believe  me  to  be 
always  your  sincere  friend, 

"DAPHNE  GUNNING. 

"P.  S.— 'Daphne  Skene'  is  prettier,  isn't  it?" 

Sending  this  bombshell  to  the  poor  old  pensioner 
off  to  the  post  by  one  of  the  numerous  boys  of  the 
establishment,  Daffy  sat  down  again  to  determine  ex- 
actly what  she  should  say  to  Gunning. 

Any  one,  almost,  of  her  mother's  family  would, 
could  he  or  she  have  been  able  to  read  Daffy's  mind  as 
she  planned,  have  declared  that  she  was  half-witted 
like  her  father.  No  one  actually  believed,  of  course, 
that  Christopher  Lambe  was  not  in  full  possession  of 
his  faculties,  but  his  wits,  such  as  they  were,  were  so 
utterly  different  from  those  of  the  Pember  tribe  that 


320  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

the  expression  "half-witted"  seemed  to  them  most 
clearly  to  express  the  difference. 

A  lack  of  the  possibility  to  realize  the  meaning  of 
the  word  "impossible"  has  won  for  more  than  one  man 
the  title  of  genius.  Daffy  had  not  only  the  peculiarity 
of  not  realizing  the  meaning  of  that  particular  word, 
but  to  her  "divorce"  and  "scandal"  meant  absolutely 
nothing. 

She  had  no  doubt  whatever  that  Gunning  could  and 
would  at  once  arrange  matters  for  her.  She  had  over- 
stated nothing  in  her  letter  to  Mr.  Wace. 

And  now,  after  an  hour's  concentrated  thought,  she 
came  to  a  perfectly  definite  plan  of  campaign. 

"Hughie,"  she  would  say,  rejecting  all  beating 
about  the  bush,  not  as  unworthy,  exactly,  but  as  sense- 
less, "Mr.  Skene  and  I  wish  to  marry,  and  will  you 
please  divorce  me  at  once?" 

No  wonder  a  possible  Pember  would  have  doubted 
her  sanity. 

Then  Hughie  would  want  to  know  if  she  were  abso- 
lutely sure  that  she  would  be  happy  with  Skene.  That 
he  would  be  careful  for  her  future  she  knew,  and  she 
faced  bravely  the  boring  necessity  for  discussion  of 
the  point. 

"He  will  say  he  doesn't  much  like  him  and  I  shall 
have  to  talk  a  long  time  to  convince  him  that  he  is 
the  right  man  for  me.  Then  the  money  question  will 
come  up,  but  I  can  easily  make  that  all  right.  He 
knows  that  father  will  give  me  some.  I  am  glad  father 
is  so  rich." 

The  grounds  for  a  divorce,  or  even  that  grounds 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  321 

were  necessary,  did  not  occur  to  her.  There  was  some- 
thing touching  in  her  conviction  that  Hughie  would 
do  everything  for  her. 

At  last,  when  in  her  mind  everything  was  settled, 
she  ate  her  solitary  lunch  and  after  a  nap  went  out 
for  a  walk. 

The  sky  had  clouded  over  and  it  was  close,  though 
not  so  unbearably  hot  as  it  had  been  for  the  past  few 
days. 

Daffy  walked  slowly  along  at  the  edge  of  the  dusty 
road,  disregarding  the  curious  glances  of  the  native 
passers-by. 

Unconsciously  she  turned  toward  the  Pettah — the 
native  village.  She  had  been  here  once  or  twice  with 
Gunning,  but  never  on  foot,  and  once  in  the  heart  of 
it  she  suddenly  woke  up  to  the  fact  that  it  was  very 
interesting. 

It  was  noisy  as  a  parrot  cage  at  a  zoo  and  its  smells 
were  variegated  and  ungodly,  but  the  shops  were  full 
of  interest.  For  a  long  time  she  stood  outside  the  little 
garden  leading  to  a  barber's  shop  watching  the  shav- 
ing of  a  coolie's  head  as  he  squatted  on  the  earthen 
floored  veranda.  Half-naked  brown  men  squatted 
everywhere,  glossy  brown  babies  swarmed  everywhere, 
at  a  pastry  cook's  stall  fearsome  messes  of  aniline 
hues  attracted  chattering  crowds. 

Dainty  little  Cingalee  women,  in  white  jackets  that 
left  a  band  of  brown  skin  visible  between  their  edges 
and  the  beginning  of  the  folded  petticoat,  tripped 
about,  busy  with  their  household  concerns.  Daffy 
backed  into  a  big  yellow  priest  and,  begging  his 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 

pardon,  received  in  return  a  volley  of  foul  language 
which  fell  as  harmlessly  as  a  blessing  on  her  uncom- 
prehending ears.  Suddenly  the  sun  came  out,  flood- 
ing the  sordid,  dirty  street  with  light  and  blackening 
the  wide-spread  palmetto  fronds  against  the  dazzling 
sky. 

"Ugh,  how  it  smells,"  said  Daffy,  crossing  to  the 
other  side  of  the  road  to  avoid  a  very  virulent  dog- 
fight. 

After  passing  a  gaudily  adorned  temple  on  her  left 
and  watching  the  progress  of  a  native  funeral,  she 
turned  back  and  made  her  way  homeward. 

And  now,  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  from 
that  on  which  she  had  passed  that  particular  part  of 
the  village,  she  observed  a  little  bungalow  set  far  back 
between  two  shops,  but  yet,  because  of  the  trees  that 
surrounded  it,  possessing  a  certain  degree  of  privacy. 

It  was  a  shabby,  tumbledown  little  house,  long  since 
painted  white,  and  from  behind  the  curtain  of  colored 
beads  that  hung  across  the  door  came  a  sort  of  whin- 
ing, rhythmical  song,  accompanied  by  the  not  unmusi- 
cal clink  of  some  kind  of  native  instrument. 

Daffy  listened,  glad  of  a  little  rest,  for  it  was  sud- 
denly very  hot,  and  the  as  sudden  darkening  of  the  sky 
boded  a  storm. 

In  the  garden  was  a  beautiful  hibiscus  tree  aflame 
with  flowers,  and  on  the  newly  boarded  but  unpainted 
veranda  floor  lay  scattered  starry  smelling  white 
blossoms — temple  flowers. 

Beyond  the  hibiscus  tree,  between  a  pepper  tree 
and  a  post  of  the  veranda,  hung  a  hammock  in  which 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  323 

some  one  lay  under  a  huge,  bright  colored  Japanese 
sunshade. 

The  droning  singing  continued,  and  after  a  long 
pause  Daffy  was  about  to  walk  on  when  a  figure 
coming  toward  her  caught  her  attention. 

It  was  that  sad,  tragic  figure  too  often  seen  in  Brit- 
ish colonies,  that  of  a  drunken,  gone-to-seed  English 
gentleman.  A  tall  man  with  a  bulbous  front,  a  swol- 
len, red  face  and  shabby  brown  linen  clothes.  It  would 
have  been  hard  to  tell  in  what  way  he  looked  a  gentle- 
man, but  in  spite  of  his  shabbiness  and  his  present 
condition  of  half-seas-overness  there  was  no  doubt 
even  in  Daffy's  immature  mind. 

As  he  reached  her  he  gave  a  lurch,  glanced  at  her 
sharply  with  his  sodden  eyes,  and  then,  taking  off  his 
battered  topee,  said  with  painful  distinctness,  "Excuse 
me  for  speaking  to  you,  but — you  should  be  getting 
home.  The  Pettah  at  this  hour  is — is  no  place  for 
white  ladies." 

Daffy  drew  back  a  little,  but  thanked  him  civilly. 

"I  am  just  going,"  she  said.    "I  am  not  afraid." 

"Excuse  my  speaking  to  you,"  he  went  on  with  the 
extreme  gravity  of  the  very  drunk,  "I — I  am  English 
myself.  If — I  were  in  fit  condish'n,"  distinctness  no 
longer  possible  to  him,  "but — I  am  not." 

With  a  flourish  he  put  on  his  hat  and  lurched  into 
the  gate  by  which  they  had  been  standing. 

As  he  went  up  the  path  the  hammock  gave  a  sudden 
jerk  and  from  it  a  small  bare  foot  and  leg  shot 
out. 

"Drunk   again,"   said  a  musical  voice,  and  then 


324  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Daffy  saw,  as  the  owner  of  the  voice  sat  up  and  began 
feeling  for  a  lost  red  slipper,  very  down  at  the  heel, 
that  had  dropped  to  the  mangy  grass,  a  remarkably 
beautiful  girl. 

She  wore  a  frowsy  tea-gown  of  a  once  delicate  pink 
hue,  she  wore  no  stays  and  her  thick  black  hair  had 
half  come  down  and  hung  in  an  untidy  mass  at  the 
back  of  her  neck.  She  looked  to  Daffy  about  twenty- 
five,  but  was  really  just  eighteen. 

"Verree  early  to  be  so  rotten  drunk,"  went  on  the 
girl,  lazily,  without  real  resentment. 

"Diss-gusting !" 

The  Englishman  sat  down  heavily  on  the  edge  of 
the  veranda  and  let  his  topee  roll  on  the  path. 

"What  a  lovely,  lovely  girl,"  she  thought  as  she 
turned  homewards.  "Almost  as  beautiful  as  Sylvia ; 
better  than  Susan — oh,  yes,  much  better  than  Susan. 
What  a  wonderful  skin — like  magnolia  leaves." 

Before  she  reached  the  end  of  the  native  town  a 
great  clap  of  thunder  seemed  to  shake  the  world  and 
she  ran  for  her  life.  Poor  Daffy — she  was  not  yet 
really  grown-up,  in  spite  of  her  nearly  three  years  of 
matrimony  and  the  great  age  of  twenty-two.  She  en- 
joyed her  run  through  the  darkening  streets  and  the 
excitement  of  reaching  home  just  before  the  rain  came 
down  as  if  the  heavens  were  a  great  bucket  and  had 
turned  over. 

Several  rickshaws  stood  before  the  door  and  a 
sound  of  agitated  voices  greeted  her. 

"Hello,  Hughie,"  she  called,  seeing  Gunning's  big 
figure  in  the  darkness  of  the  veranda,  "what's  up? 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  325 

The  servants  are  making — "     Gunning  held  out  one 
hand  to  stop  her  words,  but  did  not  rise. 

"For  God's  sake,  be  still,"  he  said  in  a  voice  she 
hardly  recognized  in  the  hiss  and  roar  of  the  rain, 
"an — an  awful  thing  has  happened.  I  have  shot 
Skene — he  will  lose — an  eye." 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

ONE  morning  in  April  an  austere-looking 
woman  in  the  blue  and  white  uniform  of  a 
London  hospital  nurse  knocked  on  Hugh 
Gunning's  study  door  at  Moonflowers. 

When  he  called  out,  "Come  in,"  she  obeyed  and 
stood  looking  at  him  for  a  moment  before  she  spoke. 
Then  her  hard  face  softened  a  little.  "He  is  ready  to 
come  down,  sir — if  you  will  come." 

Gunning,  who  sat  at  his  table,  bowed  his  head  for 
a  moment  and  then  rose. 

"I  am  ready,"  he  said. 

In  the  brilliant  sunshine  it  was  plain  that  his  smooth 
brown  hair  was  streaked  with  gray  and  that  his  brown 
face  had  a  curiously  wasted,  ravaged  look.  He  had 
suffered  mightily,  and  was  still  suffering. 

"How  is  he?"  he  went  on  presently  as  they  made 
their  way  down  the  long  bare  corridor. 

"He  is  quite  well,  sir.  It  is  a  fine  constitution," 
Miss  Archer  answered  judicially.  "The  shock  of  such 
an  operation  is  usually  much  more  severe." 

At  the  door  of  the  room  whither  they  were  bound 
Gunning  paused.  "I — I  am  a  coward,  Miss  Archer," 
he  said. 

She  laid  her  hand  for  an  instant  on  his  arm. 

"No,  you  are  not,"  she  answered  firmly.  "You  are 
326 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  827 

only — a  very  sensitive  man  in  a  particularly  painful 
position.  Try  to  endure  it  a  little  longer.  He  will  be 
able  to  move  in  a  fortnight,  and  by  that  time  you  must 
be  going  back.  The  heat  is  terrible  even  now." 

Her  plain,  sensible  face  was  very  kind.  To  her 
Hugh  Gunning's  suffering  made  him  nearly  a  patient. 

"If — if  only  he  weren't  so  patient,"  he  said,  his 
words  stumbling  a  little.  "His  lack  of  resentment 
hurts  more  than  anything,  I  think — " 

Miss  Archer  sniffed.  Even  a  duchess  may  sniff 
occasionally.  "I  shouldn't  bother  about  his  lack  of 
resentment  if  I  were  you,"  she  said  dryly.  "Some 
people  would  say  that  the  Lord  is  tempering  the 
wind." 

Gunning  nodded  wearily  and  knocked  at  the  door. 
As  he  opened  it  his  big  figure  collapsed  limply 
against  the  lintel.  If  he  had  stood  free  of  support  he 
might  have  fallen. 

Before  him  in  the  middle  of  the  clean  bare  room 
stood  Nicholas  Skene,  dressed  very  carefully  all  in 
white.  His  curly  hair  shone  in  the  sunlight,  his  ill- 
ness had  succeeded  only  in  half  bleaching  the  sunburn 
from  his  face,  so  that  he  looked  less  like  an  invalid 
than  like  some  demi-god  in  modern  clothes.  Invalid- 
ism  and  probably — so  material  are  the  means  that  con- 
tribute to  spiritually  appearing  earthly  things — in- 
valid hours  and  fare  had  given  his  beautiful  face  a 
kind  of  delicate  radiance  that  was  hardly  human.  And 
over  his  left  eye,  neatly  bound  round  his  curly  head, 
a  dark  green  silk  patch  lay  like  a  blot  on  the  fairness 
of  his  face. 


328  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  been  fully  dressed,  the 
first  time  he  had  been  free  of  bandages. 

When  he  saw  Gunning  he  smiled,  a  smile,  it  seemed 
to  the  poor  fellow  he  greeted,  of  almost  unearthly 
radiance. 

"Am  I  not  smart?"  he  said.  "I  am  so  glad  it  isn't 
black ;  green  is  so  much  more  becoming !" 

"Don't,  Skene — that's  a  good  fellow,  don't  chaff 
about  it,  I — I  can't  bear  it." 

And  Skene's  face  changed.  "Sorry,  Gunning;  I 
didn't  mean  to  hurt  you — I  say,  it  is  j  oily  to  be  prop- 
erly dressed  again.  Let's  go  downstairs,  shall  we?" 

Miss  Archer  watched  the  two  men  as  they  walked 
down  the  passage  together.  Gunning  walked  stiffly, 
like  a  man  on  parade,  but  Skene  had  taken  his  arm 
and  leaned  on  it  half  playfully. 

"Humph !"  said  Miss  Archer,  and  she  sniffed  again. 
She  had  been  with  Skene  since  the  day  after  his  acci- 
dent and  she  had  seen  Gunning  daily.  Her  mind  re- 
garding them  both  was  well  made  up. 

Meantime  they  had  reached  the  drawing  room  and 
gone  in.  Skene  was  laughing,  Gunning  grim  and 
silent. 

Daffy,  who  sat  by  the  window,  rose  so  hastily  that 
she  upset  a  small  table  on  which  stood  some  knick- 
knacks  and  a  vase  of  flowers. 

The  water  streamed  over  the  floor,  and  as  she  bent 
to  pick  up  the  vase  Skene  darted  forward  and  knelt 
in  the  debris. 

"Oh,  you  have  got  your  trousers  wet,"  she  ex- 
claimed. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  329 

He  rose,  set  the  vase  down  on  the  table  and  felt  of 
his  left  knee.  "I  didn't  see  the  water,"  he  said  simply. 

Then  Daffy,  looking  at  Gunning,  felt  that  she  al- 
most hated  her  husband  for  the  coldness  in  his  face. 
Poor  Skene  had  not  seen  the  water  because  his  left 
eye  was  gone,  and  Gunning,  who  had  done  the  damage, 
looked  on  as  unmoved  as  if  he  himself  had  been  both 
blind  and  deaf. 

Skene  held  out  his  hand  to  her.  "Please  welcome 
me  downstairs,  Mrs.  Gunning,"  he  said.  "I  am  so 
delighted." 

But  Daffy,  white-lipped,  was  staring  at  his  green 
patch.  "I — I — oh,  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  stammered, 
the  inadequate  words  ringing  horribly  absurd  in  her 
own  ears. 

Skene,  who  had  his  hand  in  hers,  turned  and  held 
out  his  left  one  toward  Gunning. 

"Now  look  here,"  he  said  genially,  "I  know  how 
dreadfully  sorry  for  me  you  both  are.  And  I  am,  of 
course,  sorry  for  myself  to  a  certain  extent.  But — 
that  bullet  was  cast  to  go  wrong  and  disable  me  in 
some  way,  and  I  greatly  prefer  a  green  patch  to,  say, 
a  wooden  leg  or  an  empty  sleeve." 

As  he  spoke  the  white-robed  butler  came  in  and  set 
down  on  the  nearest  table  a  big  tray  on  which  stood 
an  array  of  iced  drinks  of  various  kinds. 

As  Gunning  and  Daffy  remained  silent,  the  young 
man  went  to  the  table,  poured  out  two  modest  whis- 
kies, splashing  the  glasses  with  syphon,  and  hand- 
ing Daffy  a  lemon  squash,  gave  Gunning  a  whiskey 
and  took  one  himself. 


380  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"So — please  don't  let's  talk  about  me  any  more.  I 
mean  to  say,  about  my  late  eye.  Promise  me  this,  or 
I  shall  be  miserable.  And  now,  please  drink  with  me, 
will  you? — to  the  Green  Patch." 

Automatically  Gunning  drained  his  glass,  his  eye 
fixed  in  its  depths.  Daffy  sipped  at  hers  with  her 
quaintly  pointed  upper  lip,  and  set  it  down. 

"I  think,"  she  said  deliberately,  "that  you  are  sim- 
ply— splendid,  Mr.  Skene.  I  admire  your  pluck  more 
than  I  can  say.  And  I  will  try  never  to  mention — it 
— again.  Only " 

"Only  me  no  onlies!  It  is  agreed.  And  you,  too, 
Gunning."  But  Gunning  had  gone  quietly  out 
through  a  window. 

"Poor  chap !"  murmured  Skene.  He  was  genuinely 
sorry  for  Gunning,  but  he  was  far  sorrier  for  himself, 
which  was  perfectly  human  and  natural. 

Daffy,  somehow,  looked  prettier  to  his  one  eye  than 
she  had  ever  done  to  his  two ;  at  the  humor  of  this  idea 
he  suddenly  laughed,  and  she  at  the  sound  burst  into 
tears. 

She  had  suffered  unspeakably  since  his  accident  and 
her  nerves  had  been  strung  up  to  breaking  point. 
Now  the  breaking  point  had  come. 

It  was  sweet  to  Skene  that  she  should  weep  for  him, 
and  he  had  been  for  long  days  in  complete  darkness, 
and  then  for  many  more  nearly  as  wearisome  restricted 
in  the  matter  of  women's  faces  to  Miss  Archer's,  to 
which  he  had  not  felt  at  all  drawn. 

Daffy's  little  white  visage  all  a-tremble,  her  big 
eyes  bubbling  with  tears,  the  piteous  baby-like  shake 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  331 

of  her  upper  lip,  went  to  his  head.  Before  she  knew 
what  he  was  about  she  was  in  his  arms,  her  nose 
smashed  flat  against  the  buttons  of  his  coat,  his  mouth 
close  to  her  ear  as  he  muttered  little  broken  words  of 
love  to  her. 

"It  is  so  awful,  so  dreadful,"  she  gasped,  wriggling 
to  put  her  nose  into  comparative  safety,  "I  can't  bear 
it." 

Then  he  kissed  her  face,  and  for  a  minute  she  was 
quiet. 

"Poor,  darling  little  Daffy,"  he  said  softly,  "was 
she  so  upset  1  She  mustn't  cry,  though,  no!  she 
mustn't.  Hush,  dear,  you  really  mustn't." 

But  Daffy  must,  and  did,  and  for  quite  five 
minutes,  and  when  at  last  she  wiped  her  eyes  on  his 
beautiful,  smelly  handkerchief,  it  pleased  him  to  see 
that  her  delicate  little  nose  was  not  in  the  least  dis- 
colored or  her  eyes  swollen. 

"So  you  do  care  for  me,"  she  said,  giving  him  back 
his  handkerchief. 

"Of  course  I  do !    Did  you  doubt  it?" 

"Yes.  I  was  sure  you  did  before — and  then  when 
you  wouldn't  see  me  all  that  time,  then  I  thought  I  had 
been  mistaken." 

"I  didn't  see  you  because  I  was — not  well  enough," 
he  answered.  But  his  real  reason  had  been  one  of  co- 
quetry as  keen  as  was  ever  that  of  a  woman.  With 
bandages  over  his  head,  his  chin  and  cheeks  unshaven, 
he  would  see  no  lady.  This  green  patch,  in  its  mute 
pathos,  was,  he  knew,  not  without  a  certain  aesthetic 
value.  It  was  in  a  way  almost  becoming. 


333  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"Well,  that's  what  I  thought.  So  I  haven't  told 
Hughie." 

"Told  him  what?" 

"About  us." 

He  looked  at  her  aghast.  "Why  should  you  tell 
him,  in  Heaven's  name  ?" 

Daffy  laughed.  "Oh,  you  needn't  be  afraid.  He 
won't  mind,"  she  assured  him.  "He  doesn't  care  for 
me,  you  see,  so  he  won't  care  at  all." 

Skene  stared  hard  at  her  with  his  one  big  eye.  Was 
she  a  little  mad  ? 

"Won't  mind  what?"  he  stammered  stupidly. 

But  Daffy's  mind  was  quite  clear.  "Why,  about  us, 
of  course.  I  never  told  you  about  how  he  came  to 
marry  me,  did  I?" 

"No." 

"Well — sit  down,  and  I  will."  As  she  spoke,  she 
herself  sat  down,  and  folding  her  thin  little  hands,  be- 
gan with  something  the  air  of  a  child  with  a  good 
story  to  tell. 

"You  see,  I  am  the  youngest  of  three  girls,  and 
both  the  others  are  beautiful,  not  pretty,  but  real 
beauties.  And  Sylvia,  the  elder — she  is  Duchess  of 
Ginestra  now — is  a  very,  very  great  beauty.  Well, 
Hughie  knew  us  all  when  we  were  little  children  and  he 
fell  in  love  with  Sylvia  then.  He  never  loved  any  one 
else.  He  loved  her  awfully.  And  when  my  mother 
died  he  came  to  the  funeral,  and  after  it  (mother  had 
known  he  loved  Sylvia)  he  asked  her  to  marry  him. 
Of  course  she  said  she  would.  Anybody  would,  he  is 
so  nice." 


THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"Oh,"  commented  Skene,  wondering  whether,  after 
all,  his  illness  had  made  his  head  so  queer. 

"Yes,  and  they  were  engaged  until  the  following 
spring,  and  then  she  married  the  Duca  di  Ginestra." 

"But  why?  I — I  don't  seem  to  understand." 

Daffy  looked  at  him  critically.  "I  don't  see  what 
there  is  that's  hard  to  understand !  It's  all  perfectly 
simple!  She  married  Gianfranco  because  she  fell  in 
love  with  him ;  because  he  is  very  handsome.  It  seems 
rather  quaint,  doesn't  it,  that  first  Sylvia  and  then  I 
should  desert  poor  old  Hughie  because  another  man  is 
handsome?  Why,  it  nearly  killed  him  when  she  did, 
and  as  I  said,  he  won't  mind  at  all  when  I  do.  Well — 
then  for  a  long  time  he  was  very  miserable  and  when 
father  and  I  came  back  from  Japan,  he  was  better. 
He  came  to  Sorrento 

"Why  to  Sorrento?" 

"Because  that's  where  we  lived.  Father  has  a  lovely 
house  there — and  he  came  there  and — well,  I'm  sure  I 
don't  know  why  he  asked  me  to  marry  him,  except  that 
I  am  Sylvia's  sister." 

Skene  leaned  forward,  his  hands  on  his  knees,  and 
looked  at  her  closely. 

"And  why  did  you  accept  him?  Were  you  in  love 
with  him?" 

"No.  I  never  was  in  love  with  any  one  till  I  met 
you.  But — oh,  well,  it  was  time  I  married  some  one, 
and  dear  old  Hughie  was  so  nice.  Father  was  awfully 
pleased." 

"I  See » 

"So  that's  how  it  all  happened !    Isn't  it  lucky  that 


334  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

he  doesn't  care  for  me  ?  I  should  hate  to  have  to  hurt 
Hughie." 

Skene  wished  he  knew  how  to  get  out  of  the  room. 
He  wanted  to  think.  What  she  was  planning  he  could 
only  guess,  but  he  was  definitely  ill  at  ease,  and  wished 
to  be  alone  to  think. 

It  was  like  his  wretched  luck  that  just  when  to  her 
no  difficulties  seemed  visible,  they  loomed  largest  to 
him.  And  the  worst  of  it  was  that  she  had  never  been 
half  so  attractive  to  him  as  now,  when  he  began  seri- 
ously to  doubt  her  mental  balance. 

He  rose.  "I  think  I  had  better  rest  awhile  now,  if 
you  don't  mind,"  he  said.  "I  am  a  little  tired,"  and 
Daffy  flew  to  his  side. 

"Lean  on  me,  and  I'll  go  with  you  to  your  door. 
No,  lean  harder.  I  am  very  strong." 

Her  eagerness  to  help  touched  him.  She  was  so  ut- 
terly unlike  all  the  other  women  he  had  honored  with 
his  attention — although  these  ladies  were  many  and  of 
various  types — her  strangeness  in  a  subtle  way  flat- 
tered him.  He  was  pleased  with  himself  for  being 
capable  of  appreciating  her  queer  little  charm,  as 
some  people  are  proud  of  liking  caviar. 

"You  are  very  good  to  me,"  he  murmured.  "To- 
morrow I  shall  be  stronger  and  we  can  talk  it  all  over. 
Please  don't  say  anything  to  Gunning  until  we  have 
talked  it  over." 

"Oh, — don't  you  think  I  had  better  tell  him  at 
once?" 

She  looked  up  at  him,  surprise  in  her  eyes. 

"No,  dear.    There  are  things  you  and  I  must  settle 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  335 

first.  Now  here  we  are.  Thank  you  very  much,  and  I 
will  rest.  Good-bye  until  to-morrow." 

He  kissed  her  gently,  and  then,  although  it  was  only 
eleven  o'clock,  went  back  to  bed  to  insure  solitude  for 
his  reflections.  What  he  was  to  say  to  her  the  next  day 
he  had  not  the  remotest  idea,  nor  what  in  the  name  of 
Heaven  she  would  say  to  him.  Her  idea  of  telling 
Gunning  was,  course,  absurd  to  the  verge  of  madness, 
but  he  had  no  doubt  he  could  convince  her  of  its  ab- 
surdity, so  it  did  not  matter. 

What  did  matter  was,  he  realized,  what  he  was  to  do 
next.  He  knew  himself  well  enough  to  realize  that  as 
soon  as  he  was  a  little  stronger  he  was  going  to  fall  in 
love  with  her. 

He  had  not  had  a  little  love  affair  for  some  time, 
and  he  knew  that  this  one  was  now  inevitable. 

"If  he  finds  out  I  shall  have  to  leave — and  I  do 
want  to  go  to  Europe  as  he  suggests  to  see  that  ocu- 
list chap  in  Switzerland — even  Baffy  ought  to  do 
something  for  me  when  he  sees  me  with  one  eye  gone." 

Baffy  was  his  particularly  long-suffering,  but 
finally  disgusted  eldest  brother. 

"I  wonder  why  I  never  really  thought  of  her  till 
that  eye  was  gone.  She  isn't  even  pretty,  and  I'm 
quite  sure  she's  a  little  mad.  And  yet " 

He  sighed  as  the  nurse  pulled  the  green  shutters  to 
and  left  him  alone.  He  knew  too  well  that  matters 
were  now  what  he  called  out  of  his  hands.  And  they 
probably  were.  Self-control  does  not  grow  in  a  day, 
nor  do  principles. 


CHAPTER    XL 


JFTT^HE  next  day,  for  some  reason,  Skene  was 
worse ;  he  woke  with  a  bad  head  and  a  little 
fever  and  the  doctor  ordered  him  to  stay  in 
•*"      bed. 

Daffy  was  much  disappointed,  for  she  was  burning 
to  tell  the  story  to  Gunning  and  had  promised  not  to 
before  she  had  again  seen  Skene. 

She  wandered  restlessly  up  and  down  the  house  all 
day,  her  face  set  in  its  queer  scowl,  and  once  when 
Gunning  spoke  to  her,  her  voice,  for  the  first  time 
since  their  marriage,  held  its  old  gruff  bass  note. 

"Are  you  not  well?"  he  asked,  absently  taking  a 
mango  and  looking  at  it  as  if  he  had  not  the  least 
idea  what  he  was  to  do  with  it. 

"Quite  well,"  she  growled,  adding  after  a  pause, 
"thanks." 

Gunning  was  away  most  of  the  afternoon.  He  had 
a  new  trick  of  staying  out  for  unexplained  hours  at  a 
time,  and  would  come  in  looking  exhausted  and  cov- 
ered with  dust. 

Probably,  if  he  had  been  asked  where  he  had  been  he 
would  not  have  known,  but  no  one  asked  him.  Daffy 
was  utterly  engrossed  in  the  glorious  egotism  of  her 
first  love.  That  particular  day  he  did  not  come  in 
until  just  before  dinner,  and  Skene,  looking  pale  and 
ill,  sat  in  the  drawing  room. 

336 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  337 

"Ah — glad  to  see  you  are  down,"  the  elder  man 
said,  his  face  setting  firmly  as  he  shook  hands  with  his 
guest.  "Are  you  better?" 

"Yes.    It  was  only  a  recurrence  of  the  headache." 

"Have  you  seen  my  wife?" 

"No,  I  only  just  came  down  before  you  came  in." 

As  he  spoke,  Daffy  entered,  carrying  a  great  bunch 
of  purple,  bill-like  flowers  that  filled  the  air  with  a 
strong  scent. 

"Oh,  you  are  down !"  Some  of  the  flowers  fell  to 
her  feet  in  her  surprise  and  Skene  picked  them  up 
after  he  had  shaken  hands  with  her. 

"What  lovely  flowers,"  he  said,  a  little  sharply, 
holding  them  to  his  face.  "I  didn't  know  you  had  any 
here." 

"No,  we  haven't,  they  were  sent  to  me." 

Gunning  drew  away  from  the  strong-smelling 
things. 

"Who  sent  them,  dear?"  he  asked  civilly. 

Daffy  selected  a  vase  for  her  present.  "Would  you 
mind  ringing  for  water,  Hughie?  I  don't  know  who 
it  was.  A  lady,  Johnson  said;  she  came  in  a  rick- 
shaw." 

Johnson,  who  was  Gunning's  valet,  answered  the 
bell,  and  when  he  had  left  to  fill  the  vase,  Skene  said 
to  Daffy,  not  looking  at  her,  "I  wonder  who  the  lady 
was,  Mrs.  Gunning.  Perhaps  Mrs.  Harscamp." 

"Oh,  no,  he  knows  her  by  sight.  A  young  lady,  he 
said  it  was." 

"Violet  Dawson,  probably,  then." 

Johnson  returned  just  then  and  Daffy,  constrained 


338  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

by  a  feeling  that  she  must  do  so,  although  the  mystery 
did  not  greatly  interest  her,  asked  him  about  the  lady 
of  the  flowers. 

"I  don't  know  who  it  was,  Madame,"  the  man  an- 
swered, "it  was  a  young  lady,  and — she  was  very 
pretty,  if  I  may  say  so — in  fact,  Madame,"  he  went  on 
with  the  respectful  confidence  of  an  old  servant,  "she 
was — well,  the  most  beautiful  lady  as  ever  I  saw  in 
my  life,  barring  'Er  Grace." 

Daffy  turned  in  surprise  to  Skene,  but  he  had  gone 
to  the  piano  and  stood  with  his  back  turned  to  her, 
looking  at  some  new  music  that  lay  there. 

"Thanks,  Johnson.  But  who  on  earth  can  she  be  ?" 
she  continued,  as  the  servant  left  the  room.  "Have 
you  any  idea,  Mr.  Skene  ?" 

Gunning,  who  was  watching  the  young  man,  no- 
ticed his  face  as  he  turned.  "I  ?  No,  Mrs.  Gunning.  I 
had  no  idea  we  were  favored  with  the  presence  of  such 
beauty!" 

"That,"  thought  Gunning,  as  he  went  to  his  room  to 
dress,  "was  a  lie." 

His  brain,  almost  physically  weary  of  turning  over 
and  over  the  hideous,  hopeless  thought  of  Skene's  mu- 
tilation, seized  on  the  new  idea  of  the  lady  of  the 
purple  flowers  with  something  like  relief.  Skene 
knew  who  she  was,  and  he  would  not  acknowledge  it. 
Why? 

All  through  dinner  he  was  busy  with  this  new 
thought,  though  the  subject  did  not  come  up  again. 
Skene  was  a  little  silent,  excusing  himself  on  the  plea 
of  not  yet  feeling  quite  himself.  "A  headache  is  the 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  -       339 

very  deuce,  isn't  it?"  he  added  patiently,  and  Daffy 
answered  warmly. 

Gunning's  attitude  of  indifferent  silence  she  took 
greatly  to  heart.  It  looked  to  her  like  utter  heartless- 
ness,  and  the  more  angelic  Skene  was,  the  more  indig- 
nant she  became. 

Presently  the  conversation  turned  to  their  ap- 
proaching return  to  England,  and  she  turned  to  Skene. 

"How  long  is  it  since  you  have  been  there  ?" 

"Nearly  four  years." 

"Is  it,  really!  Well,  you  will  be  very  glad  to  get 
back,  won't  you?" 

Skene  took  some  wine  very  slowly  before  he  an- 
swered. Then  he  said  in  a  quiet  voice,  "I  fear  I  shall 
not  be  able  to  go,  Mrs.  Gunning." 

"Not  go!  But  why?" 

"To  be  quite  frank,  I  can't  afford  it." 

Daffy  glanced  quickly  at  Gunning,  who  was  draw- 
ing patterns  on  the  table-cloth  with  a  fork. 

"But " 

"You  see,"  Skene  went  on  with  an  air  of  simple 
courage,  "I  have  wasted  a  lot  of  time  this  winter,  and 
things  have  gone  wrong.  I  have  to  take  the  conse- 
quences, that's  all.  But  don't  be  troubled,  Mrs.  Gun- 
ning. I  am  nearly  quite  strong  again,  and  I  shall,  I 
dare  say,  be  able  to  manage  a  few  weeks  in  the  moun- 
tains." Gunning  didn't  look  up.  His  mouth  was 
fixed  in  its  grim  line ;  he  didn't  speak. 

Daffy  drew  a  deep  breath  as  she  looked  at  him. 

"Well,  you  must  come  to  England,  that's  quite  cer- 
tain," she  said,  two  little  spots  of  red  burning  in  the 


340  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

whiteness  of  her  face.  "It  is  entirely  my  fault  that 
you  have  'wasted  time,'  so  I  wrote  to  my  father  just 
after  the — the  accident,  and  I  had  a  cablegram  to-day, 
asking  you  to  come  over  as  his  guest  for  a  long  stay. 
You  will  like  my  father,"  she  added  hastily,  "he  is  the 
greatest  dear  in  the  world.  And  he  will  like  you.  He 
has  such  a  pretty  place  at  Sorrento,  and  he  wants  you 
to  go  there  first  for  a  month  or  so,  and  then  he  is 
going  to  England,  and  wants  you  to  go  with  him. 
His  eyes  are  a  little  troublesome,  he  says,  and  he  is 
going  some  time  during  the  summer  to  Lausanne  to 
see  the  big  oculist  there,  and " 

"Rather  a  long  cablegram,"  commented  Gunning 
harshly.  Then  he  rose  and  left  the  room.  Daffy 
stared  defiantly  after  him  for  a  moment  and  then 
looked  at  Skene. 

"My  dear,"  he  said  softly,  "he  knew  that  that  was 
a  fib." 

"Then,"  growled  Daffy  in  her  hoarsest  voice,  "I 
hope  he  is  as  ashamed  as  he  ought  to  be.  Oh,  Nicko,  I 
am  so  ashamed  of  him.  I  can't  understand.  He 
never  was  unkind  before." 

Skene  came  to  where  she  sat,  and  laid  his  hands  on 
her  bare  shoulders.  "Look  at  me,"  he  whispered, 
something  in  his  voice  that  stirred  her  in  a  quite  new 
way. 

"Oh,  no,  you  mustn't  kiss  me!"  she  faltered,  her 
black  head  pressed  against  his  shirt  front,  "not  yet." 

He  drew  back,  as  surprised  as  he  was  annoyed. 

"I  can't  understand  you  at  all,"  he  said  angrily. 
"Why  do  you  flirt  with  me?" 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  341 

She  rose  and  faced  him.  "I  don't  flirt  with  you," 
she  retorted,  angry  herself.  "That  is  not  true.  But  I 
don't  think  it  would  be  nice  to  kiss  me  before  we  have 
told  him." 

Skene  failed  absolutely  to  understand  that  she  was 
sincere.  To  him  her  attitude  was  a  not  unskillful  one 
of  coquetry,  and  it  piqued  and  led  him  on  as  no 
amount  of  simple  love  could  have  done. 

He  seized  her  and  kissed  her  violently  several  times. 

Poor  little  Daffy !  when  he  let  her  go  she  stood  be- 
fore him  panting  and  scarlet,  her  eyes  wet,  her  mouth 
quivering.  She  was  torn  by  two  very  different  emo- 
tions, but  only  one  of  them  found  words.  "You 
mustn't,  you  mustn't"  she  protested,  almost  wildly, 
"it  isn't  fair.  It's  horrid!" 

"Thanhs !  I  kiss  you  because  I  love  you,  and  you 
say  it's  horrid !"  His  pale  face  flushed  with  anger  and 
hurt  vanity. 

"I  don't  mean  that — you  know  I  don't !  I  mean  that 
it  isn't  right  yet.  Hugh  will  not  mind  after  I  have 
told  him,  but  he  hates  sneaking,  and  I  mil  not  sneak!" 

She  had  never  in  her  life  before  called  her  husband 
Hugh. 

This  Skene,  of  course,  did  not  know,  but  in  her 
anger  and  her  new  dignity  she  appealed  strongly  to 
him,  although  he  saw  in  her  mental  attitude  but  an  ab- 
surd pose.  He  liked  pose,  however. 

"You  have  a  fine  little  temper  of  your  own,  I  see," 
he  teased,  "I  am  positively  afraid  of  you !" 

But  her  seriousness  remained  unbroken. 

"I  will  go  and  tell  him  now,"  she  declared  firmly. 


342  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"You  mustn't." 

"But  why?" 

"He'd  scold  you." 

"Nonsense.  He  never  scolds  me.  Good-bye.  I  will 
come  back — no,  I'll  come  to  the  drawing  room  in 
about — well,  it  will  take  a  long  time — in  half-an-hour, 
say." 

And  before  he  could  stop  her  she  had  left  the  room 
and  he  heard  her  knock  at  the  study  door. 

Gunning  was  not  in  the  room,  but  as  she  opened  the 
door  he  came  in  at  a  window. 

His  face  had  a  peculiar  expression,  but  she  was  too 
self -engrossed  to  notice  it. 

"Hughie,"  she  said,  "I  have  something  to  tell  you." 

"Sit  down,  Daffy." 

But  she  remained  standing.  He  never  forgot  the 
picture  she  made  in  her  white  frock,  her  hands  tightly 
clasped  before  her,  her  brows  drawn  intently  together. 

"It  is  this.  I  know  you  will  not  mind,  so  I  can  tell 
you  in  a  few  words.  I  want  to  marry  Mr.  Skene, 
Hughie,  so  will  you  please  divorce  me  ?" 

Gunning  sat  down  suddenly,  and  burst  out  laugh- 
ing. "So  will  I  please  divorce  you?  My  dear  child, 
have  you  gone  mad?" 

"No,  Hughie,  I  am  not  mad  at  all.  I — I  love 
him." 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  he  said,  sud- 
denly grave,  "Daffy,  dear,  if — if  you  dislike  me  too 
much  to  stay  with  me,  you  may  go  home  to  your 
father.  But  before  you  go,  you  must  realize  that  it 
will  cause  a  great  deal  of  talk,  which  you  will  not  like. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  343 

And  your  position  as  a  woman  living  apart  from  her 
husband  will  not  be  so  good  as  the  one  you  have  now — 
even  with  me,"  he  added  a  little  bitterly. 

"But  I  don't  want  to  go  home  to  my  father,"  she 
insisted,  her  eyes  fixed  on  him. 

"As  to  your  marrying  Skene,  you  shall  certainly 
never  do  that,"  he  continued,  disregarding  her  inter- 
ruption. 

"But  why?   It  isn't  as  if  you  loved  me." 

"That  has  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Skene  is  not  a 
good  man.  He  would  not  be  good  to  you." 

Daffy  flushed  violently.  Then  she  extended  both 
her  arms  in  a  queer  theatrical  gesture  he  had  never 
before  seen  her  use. 

"Oh,  you  brute,  you  coward,"  she  cried  hoarsely, 
the  words  stumbling  over  each  other,  "to  say  that  of 
the  man  whose  life  your  carelessness  has  ruined.  'Crim- 
inal carelessness'  7  call  it.  Other  men  don't  hurt  their 
friends,  and  you  have  always  been  proud  of  your 
shooting " 

"Be  silent !"  he  thundered. 

It  was  a  strange  moment.  She  had  never  before 
seen  him  as  angry  as  lay  in  him  to  be,  and  her  deep  in- 
dignation, unjust  as  it  was,  struck  him  by  its  very 
intensity. 

Both  of  them,  more  angry  than  ever  before  in  their 
lives,  were  at  the  same  time  impressed  by  the  unex- 
pected revelation  in  each  other. 

"I  will  not  be  silent " 

"You  will.  You  are  not  yourself.  You  have  in- 
sulted me  in  a  way  I  shall  never  forgive." 


344  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"And  you,  in  insulting  the  man  I  love,  have  in- 
sulted me.  I  repeat  that  I  consider  you  a  coward.  I 
have  no  more  to  say." 

Very  quietly  she  left  the  room,  and  Gunning,  after 
staring  at  the  closed  door  for  several  seconds,  stum- 
bled to  a  chair  and  sat  down. 


CHAPTER    XLI 

GUNNING  got  no  sleep  that  night.     After 
leaving  the  dinner  table  he  had  walked  about 
the  garden  for  some  time,  and  then  an  evil 
chance  had  brought  him  within  eye-shot  of 
the  scene  in  the  dining-room  just  as  Daffy  tore  herself 
from  Skene's  arms. 

Gunning  was  too  far  off  to  hear  what  the  two  were 
saying,  and  his  sense  of  dignity  did  not  allow  him  to 
stand  and  watch,  but  he  went  away  into  the  darkness 
with,  printed  in  his  mind,  a  picture  of  his  wife,  a 
flushed,  tremulous  woman,  wakened  at  last  to  woman- 
hood by  another  man. 

Over  and  over  again  he  recalled  the  scene,  as  the 
short,  hot  night  wore  on. 

And  it  did  not  occur  once  to  him  that  his  first  im- 
pression as  to  Daffy's  reason  for  making  her  remarka- 
ble request  might  have  been  wrong. 

She  had,  he  believed,  seen  him  in  the  garden,  and 
her  coming  to  his  study  had  been  merely  a  suddenly 
inspired  bit  of  feminine  diplomacy. 

His  slow,  honest  mind  was  stirred  to  disgust  by  this 
conviction. 

Her  accusation  of  cowardice  regarding  Skene,  too, 
hit  him  in  a  very  raw  place.  It  was  horrible  to  him 
that  he  could  not  like  the  man  he  had  so  terribly  in- 
jured. 

845 


346  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

He  felt  that  his  distrust  of  Skene  was  an  added  hurt 
to  the  young  man.  He  had  many  days  before  sug- 
gested Skene's  going  back  to  Europe  with  him  and  his 
wife,  to  see  the  oculist  in  Switzerland,  but  since  mak- 
ing the  suggestion  his  dislike  of  Skene  had  so  increased 
that  he  felt  he  could  not  face  the  journey. 

In  some  way  without  hurting  the  fellow,  he  had  been 
thinking  he  must  arrange  that  the  journey  must  not 
be  made  together. 

It  was  very  horrible  to  him,  thus  to  plot,  for  Hugh 
Gunning  was  a  generous-minded  man,  but  his  dislike 
of  Skene  was  stronger  than  his  reason ;  he  could  not 
overcome  it. 

The  knowledge,  too,  that  Daffy  saw  his  dislike  and 
mis-read  it  as  callousness,  had  hurt  him  severely.  But 
he  was  one  of  those  men  who  seem,  once  their  emotions 
come  into  play,  incapable  of  explanation.  It  was  im- 
possible for  him  to  even  make  an  effort  to  convince 
his  wife  of  her  injustice.  All  he  could  do  was  to  set 
his  teeth  and  endure  his  misery  as  best  he  could. 

And  now  the  worst  had  happened,  and  the  poor  lit- 
tle fool  was  in  love  with  the  man  she  regarded  as  her 
husband's  victim. 

Why  Gunning's  sense  of  justice  should  have  failed 
him  in  a  matter  so  vital  as  his  judgment  of  Daffy's 
reason  for  telling  him  of  her  infatuation,  it  is  hard  to 
guess. 

It  may  have  been  because  his  brain  was  already 
over-tired,  it  may  have  lain  in  the  fact  that  he  knew 
she  had  as  a  child  been  untruthful. 

Whatever  the  reason  was  for  his  mistake,  in  its  way 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  847 

as  vital  as  hers  about  his  mental  attitude  regarding 
the  accident,  it  helt!  rpod  and  widened  the  breach  to  a 
very  dangerous  extent. 

Morning,  however,  found  him  resolved  to  make  an 
effort  to  keep  her  from  rushing  into  the  folly  she  con- 
templated. 

At  about  eleven  o'clock  he  sent  for  her  to  come  to 
his  study.  They  had  not  met  before,  and  wished  each 
other  a  sedate  good-morning.  Then  he  began  gently, 
"Daffy,  I  am  sorry  I  was  harsh  last  night.  And  I 
wish  to  tell  you  something  that  will  perhaps  explain 
to  a  certain  extent  why  I  maintain  that  Skene  is  not  a 
good  man.  I  saw  him  kiss  you  last  night." 

Now  Daffy  was  still  ashamed  of  that  kiss,  but  she 
was  far  too  angry  to  admit  it. 

"Well?"  she  asked  defiantly. 

"Do  you  think  it  nice,  as  you  say,  to  come  to  a 
man's  house  and  make  love  to  his  young — his  very 
young  wife?" 

"Nonsense!  If  the  young — the  very  young  wife 
permits  it,  why  not?  I  tell  you,  I  love  him." 

"There  is,  believe  me,  nothing  new  in  that  situation. 
You  are  not  the  first  woman  who  has " 

But  Daffy  was  seized  with  one  of  her  fits  of  elo- 
quence and  burst  into  a  torrent  of  words  that  tempted 
him  to  stop  his  ears. 

"I  know  all  that,  and  all  that  you  are  planning  to 
say.  And  it  is  all  wrong.  I  have  been  perfectly  hon- 
est with  you ;  I  came  and  told  you  that  I  loved  Nicko 
Skene,  and  that  we  wished  to  marry;  and  if  he  has 
kissed  me,  what  of  that?  Don't  people  who  love  each 


348  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

other  usually  kiss  each  other?  I  let  him,"  she  lied, 
"and  I  liked  it.  I  liked  it  very  much.  He  loves  me, 
and  that  is  more  than  you  ever  did !  Oh,  I  am  not  re- 
proaching you;  I  always  knew  you'd  never  love  any 
one  but  Sylvia,  and  I  am  glad  you  don't  love  me, 
but — "  she  paused  for  a  moment,  and  then  with  a 
crowning  effort  of  fierceness  added  the  supreme  injus- 
tice: "But  you  knew  what  love  is,  and  I  didn't,  be- 
cause I  was  too  young,  and  you  had  no  right,  no 
right,  I  say,  to  cheat  me  out  of  my  chance  of  hap- 
piness !" 

There  was  a  long  pause,  and  then  Gunning  said 
quietly,  "I  see  what  you  mean,  and  I  am  sorry  you 
think  that.  Everything  you  have  said  is  untrue  as 
well  as  cruelly  unkind,  but  that  doesn't  matter.  I 
will  take  you  to  your  father  and  leave  you  there.  But 
I  will  never — understand  me  once  and  for  all,  please — 
I  will  never  either  divorce  you  or  let  you  divorce  me. 
The  man  is  not  straight ;  oh,  I  don't  mean  because  he 
kissed  you — there  are  other  things — I  have  heard  men 
talk  about  him,  and  I  have  noticed  a  hundred  trifles  I 
didn't  like,  and  you  shall  not  ruin  your  life  by  marry- 
ing him." 

"Ah,  I  see.  I  congratulate  you  on  your  perversity, 
Hughie.  First  you  maim  and  disfigure  him,  the  most 
beautiful  man  in  the  world,  and  then  you  refuse  to  let 
him  be  happy.  Very  well.  I  will  go  to  my  father,  and 
if  he  cannot  convince  you  that  there  is  only  one  thing 
that  you  can  in  common  decency  do — then  I  will  run 
away  with  Nicko  Skene,  and  every  one  shall  know  what 
you  have  done." 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  349 

"This  is  silly  rot,  Daffy.  Try  to  behave  like  a 
grown  woman.  The  fellow  hasn't  asked  you  to  run 
away  with  him,  has  he?  And  I  greatly  doubt  if  he 
would  have  the  courage !  Did  he  tell  you  to  come  to 
me  last  night?  I  greatly  doubt  that,  too." 

Daffy  caught  a  deep  breath  and  tried  to  speak,  but 
she  was  done,  and  in  place  of  words  came  tears. 

Poor  Gunning  at  once  softened.  She  was  so  little, 
so  young,  so  unutterably  foolish! 

"Don't  cry,  Daffy,"  he  said  awkwardly,  "I  am 
sorry  I  was  hasty.  Try  to  believe  that  I  am  thinking 
of  your  ultimate  happiness.  And  I  am  sure  it  does 
not  lie  with  poor  Skene.  God  knows  I — "  he  broke 
off ;  the  words  expressing  his  grief  about  the  accident 
would  not  come.  After  a  pause  he  went  on:  "He's  a 
type  I  know  well,  dear.  He's  a  woman's  man ;  he's  had 
half  a  dozen  love  affairs  even  out  here.  He  knew  yes- 
terday who  the  lady  was  who  brought  you  the  purple 
flowers — ask  him.  I  saw  his  face." 

Daffy  had  nearly  conquered  her  tears  now,  and  was 
scrambling  for  her  pocket  in  an  unrestrained  childish 
way  that  gave  him  a  little  pang  of  amusement  in  the 
midst  of  his  pain. 

"It  isn't  true,  he  does  love  me.    He  said  so." 

Hope  shot  into  Gunning's  heart.  "I'm  not  saying 
he  doesn't  love  you.  No  doubt  he  does — in  his  way. 
But  it  isn't  the  love  that  lasts,  I  could  swear.  It 
never  occurred  to  me  that  he  loved  you.  He  doesn't 
look  as  if  he  did.  You  don't  know,  my  dear,  how 
many  emotions  there  are  that  go  by  the  name  of  love 
without  even  approaching  it." 


350  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Having  found  her  handkerchief,  Daffy  blew  her 
nose. 

"It's  the  kind  of  love  that  pleases  me,"  she  de- 
clared finally.  "If  you  had  had  the — the  humanity 
to  kiss  Sylvia  even  once,  realty — she  might  not  have 
got  bored  and  thrown  you  over.  Then  all  this  trouble 
would  never  have  been." 

Gunning,  remembering  the  great  measure  of  his 
beautiful  reverence  for  Sylvia,  felt  as  if  her  words  had 
desecrated  a  temple. 

"Don't !"  he  ej  aculated  sharply. 

"All  right,  I'll  not  say  any  more.  I  wish  to  go  to 
Sorrento  at  once.  I  suppose  you  have  no  objection?" 

"None  whatever.  A  boat  goes  to-morrow.  We  can 
catch  it  quite  easily." 

"I  wish  to  go  alone,  please.  Oh,  you  needn't  be 
afraid,"  she  added  with  an  absurd  little  air  of  hauteur, 
"Nicko  will  not  come  until  I  send  for  him !" 

"Very  well,  you  may  go  alone  to-morrow.  The 
Porter-Whytes  are  going  and  they  will " 

"  Took  after  me?'    All  right.    Thank  you." 

She  left  the  room  without  further  delay  and  a  little 
later  he  heard  her  maid's  heavy  footfall  in  her  room 
overhead,  as  she  tramped  from  box  to  box  packing. 

"Curious,"  he  thought,  lighting  a  cigar,  "how  she 
looks  like  Sylvia  when  she's  angry.  Not  that  Sylvia 
ever  was  angry,"  his  mind  went  on,  loyal  as  ever  to  the 
memory  of  his  youthful  love,  "but  Daffy's  mouth  is  so 
like  hers  when  she  is  in  a  rage.  Poor  Daffy !" 

He  was  unspeakably  miserable;  life  indeed  was 
hard  to  bear.  After  shooting  Skene,  it  had  seemed 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  351 

nearly  unendurable,  but  now  Daffy's  madness  in- 
creased the  misery  tenfold.  If  Skene  had  been  a  good 
fellow,  he  thought,  he  would  not  have  minded,  but  as 
it  was,  poor  Lambe,  he  would  be  dreadfully  shocked. 
"I  wonder  if  she  is  right,  after  all;  that  I  had  no 
right  to  marry  her  when  she  didn't  know?  But  I 
thought  I  could  make  her  happy." 

With  a  stab  of  remorse  he  remembered  his  forgotten 
promise,  made  to  Lambe  the  night  before  they  sailed, 
not  to  let  Daffy  be  lonely.  He  had  not  recalled  the 
conversation  until  now,  and  now  he  recalled  as  well 
his  father-in-law's  uneasy  manner  and  queer  little 
speech  of  adieu.  "I  believe  he  saw  trouble  ahead,"  he 
reflected. 

Like  most  honest  people  his  self-reproach  over- 
reached itself,  and  he  took  to  himself  all  the  blame 
from  the  very  beginning.  But  Daffy's  attitude  about 
the  accident  he  could  not  forgive.  She  might,  she 
should  have  seen  that  his  sorrow  was  beyond  expres- 
sion, that  he  simply  could  not  talk  about  it ;  that  the 
green  patch  Skene  wore  was  to  him  like  a  great  blot 
on  the  fairness  of  the  world.  He  saw  it  everywhere. 
And  when  he  met  Skene  suddenly,  or  if  the  young 
man,  turning  quickly,  displayed  the  thing,  it  was  as  if 
he,  Gunning,  literally  could  not  bear  it. 

Skene's  seraphic  patience,  in  which  he  could  nol 
force  himself  absolutely  to  believe,  made  matters 
worse.  If  only  the  young  man  had  been  petty  and  un- 
reasonable !  But  he  was  always  gentleness  itself,  and 
Gunning,  distrusting  his  gentleness,  felt  himself  to  be 
a  monster  of  suspicious  uncharitableness  even  while  in 


352  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

his  heart  he  knew  Skene  was  not  what  he  termed 
straight.  Hours  passed  and  Gunning  had  not  left 
his  study. 

At  last,  toward  six,  unable  to  bear  the  stress  of 
continuous  thought  any  longer,  he  went  for  a  walk. 
As  he  passed  through  the  garden  to  the  gate,  he  met 
Daffy  returning  home  in  a  rickshaw.  "I  have  been 
about  my  cabin,"  she  said  civilly.  "I  have  got  a 
very  good  one." 

"I  am  glad.    Where  is  Skene?" 

"I  don't  know.  I  haven't  seen  him  at  all  to-day. 
This  morning  his  head  was  bad.  Sly  of  him  to  have 
headache,  isn't  it?  And  as  to  the  green  patch,  I  call 
it  very  dishonest  of  him  to  wear  it." 

Her  childish  malice  hurt  him  horribly.  Without  a 
word  he  passed  on,  and  a  little  later  found  himself  in 
the  native  village. 

But  after  threading  a  difficult  way  through  the 
evening  crowd  there  for  a  few  minutes,  the  smells  be- 
came too  much  for  him,  and  he  turned  up  a  narrow 
lane  leading  to  the  left  toward  the  Cinnamon 
Garden. 

Here  it  was  quieter  and  the  smells  were  less  viru- 
lent. Presently  he  came  to  an  open  road,  which  was 
lined  with  sunburnt  pepper  trees,  and  where  a  slight, 
warm  breeze  was  stirring. 

Gunning  was  very  tired,  and  with  dragging  foot- 
steps took  the  footpath  to  the  right. 

His  mind  had  gone  back  to  the  political  plan  that 
had  been  submitted  to  him.  It  pleased  his  ambition, 
but  its  charm  had  gone,  somehow.  He  was  too  tired 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  353 

to  take  pleasure  in  anything.  "  'For  Cassius  is  a- 
weary  of  the  world,' "  he  thought  sadly,  and  then 
laughed  at  his  own  vanity  in  comparing  himself  to  the 
brilliant  Roman. 

But  a-weary  of  the  world  he  was,  nevertheless.  The 
trouble  ahead  of  him  was  peculiarly  repellant  to  his 
orderly  mind.  An  obstreperous  wife  had  never  oc- 
curred to  him  as  one  of  the  griefs  life  might  have  in 
store  for  him. 

Divorce  he  looked  upon  with  uncompromising  eyes, 
simply  as  disgraceful. 

"Whatever  comes,"  he  said  again  to  himself,  as  he 
entered  a  path  thickly  shaded  by  trees  hanging  over 
a  high  wooden  paling  on  his  right,  "that  shall  not. 
Besides,  the  poor  little  thing  doesn't  really  love  him. 
It's  calf  love,  the  romantic  nonsense  she  should  have 
gone  through  at  eighteen." 

And  then  he  stopped  suddenly  as  if  he  had  been 
shot.  Some  one  had  spoken  on  the  other  side  of  the 
paling. 

"I  tell  you,  I  won't  have  it,"  the  voice  had  said, 
angry,  authoritative.  And  it  was  Skene's  voice. 

"Why,  dee-ar,"  drawled  some  one  else  very  musi- 
cally, "how  can  you  help  it?" 

"I'll  beat  him  to  a  jelly  if  it  happens  again. 
That's  how  I'll  help  it !" 

The  woman  laughed.  "Why,  dear  Apollo,  then 
what  should  /  do?  Don't  be  sillee.  Now  tell  me  the 
news.  How  is  the  little  ladee  ?  Did  she  like  the  flowers 
I  sent  her?" 

"Aha !  I  knew  it  was  you.    How  dared  you?" 


354  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

She  laughed  again.  "I  am  not  afraid.  Why  should 
I  be?  I  am  a  verree  good  girl,  as  every  boddee  knows, 
and  I  am  daughter  of  an  English  gentleman!  When 
Pedro  told  me,  then  I  laughed  very  much.  It  was  so 
funnee.  And  one  night,  I  went  to  Moonflowers  and  I 
crawled  close  to  the  windows  and  I  looked  in.  Oh, 
verree  prettee!  And  Mr.  Apollo  Skene  sitting  so 
close,  so  close,  his  eyes  half  shut — so.  He  had  two 
eyes  then !" 

The  laugh  made  Gunning's  blood  rush  indignantly 
to  his  face,  but  he  had  sat  down  on  a  bench  that  stood 
in  the  dark  shadow  of  the  trees  and  deliberately  lis- 
tened. 

It  was  the  first  dishonorable  act  of  his  life,  but  he 
had  no  scruples. 

Presently  he  saw  a  knot-hole  in  one  of  the  boards 
of  the  paling  and  crept  quietly  along  the  bench  and 
put  his  eye  to  it. 

The  garden,  he  saw,  was  neglected  and  untidy.  At 
the  far  end  of  it  an  open  door  showed  a  small  strip  of 
a  dark,  dirty  kitchen,  in  which  a  woman  sat,  with  her 
back  turned  toward  the  garden.  Just  inside  the  pal- 
ings was  a  battered  steamer  chair,  and  in  it  sat  the 
woman  who  laughed. 

She  wore  a  dirty  white  dress  tied  round  the  waist 
with  an  orange-colored  sash.  Her  hair  was  hidden  by 
a  violet  straw  hat,  adorned  by  dingy  white  plumes. 
Her  hands  and  arms  to  the  elbow  were  bare,  and  of  a 
peculiar  dusky  bronze  hue.  From  his  place  Gunning 
could  not  see  her  face,  but  the  hands  were  the  hands 
of  a  woman  possessed  of  some  sort  of  power.  They 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  355 

were  carefully  tended,  too,  though  a  little  dirty,  and 
a  heavy  gold  bracelet  shone  on  one  wrist. 

"Pedro  was  looking  very  handsome  at  the  wedding," 
she  went  on,  her  hands  curving  round  each  other  in 
evident  enjoyment.  "It  was  a  verree  prettee  wedding. 
We  had  pink  champagne.  Pedro  kissed  mee !" 

There  was  a  crash  as  Skene,  in  jumping  up, 
knocked  his  chair  over. 

"Look  here,  Blanziflor,"  he  said,  his  voice  rough 
with  strong  emotion,  "I  swear  I  won't  have  this;  I 
can't  stand  it.  I'll  do  that  dog  some  harm,  I  tell  you." 

The  beautiful  dusky  hands  in  the  white  lap  ceased 
their  sensuous  motions  and  stiffened  suddenly.  "Don't 
be  cross,  Nicko,"  she  said,  "you  frighten  me." 

Then  Skene  knelt  by  her,  and  with  both  arms  round 
her,  he  muttered  things  Gunning  could  not  hear. 

The  girl,  turning  a  little,  bent  and  kissed  the  curly 
head  in  her  lap,  and  then  as  they  sat  motionless,  Gun- 
ning for  the  first  time  saw  her  face.  It  was  so  beauti- 
ful that  he  caught  his  breath.  "Who  on  earth  can  she 
be?"  he  asked  himself.  She  had  said  she  was  the 
daughter  of  an  English  gentleman,  and  she  certainly 
was  as  fair  as  many  dark  Englishwomen,  but  her 
hands  were  not  the  hands  of  a  white  woman.  Chi-chi ! 

Any  one  used  to  the  East  would  have  known  at 
once  by  the  way  she  spoke,  but  Gunning  only  recog- 
nized it  now. 

"Blanziflor,  I  love  you,"  he  heard  Skene  whisper 
brokenly,  "be  good  to  me ;  don't  torment  me.  Isn't  it 
enough  that  that  swine  has  destroyed  my  eye  and 
maimed  me " 


356  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"God  damn  him,"  interrupted  the  girl  calmly,  "I 
hate  him.  I  should  like  to  tear  out  his  eye  with  my 
fingers." 

"Oh,  he  didn't  mean  to,  but  it  was  brutal  careless- 
ness at  the  best — smug  fool.  It  makes  me  so  angry 
when  I  think  of  all  his  money,  and  all  he  can  do, 
while  I " 

The  girl  took  off  her  hat  and  sent  it  sailing  away 
over  the  gravel.  Her  beauty  now  was  amazing. 

"But  why  you  make  love  to  his  wife?"  she  asked, 
frowning  suddenly.  "Pedro  told  me.  I  know." 

Skene  did  not  answer  at  once  and  Gunning  waited, 
breathless,  for  his  answer. 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you  the  truth,  shall  I?" 

"Yes,  Nicko,  dear." 

"It's  this  way,  then.  You  had  been  beastly  to  me, 
your  father  had  been  making  another  row  at  the  bar 
at  the  G.  F.  H.,  I  was  furious  with  you  and  ashamed 
of  him,  and,  she's  a  nice  little  thing,"  he  added,  "and 
I  had  to  make  love  to  some  one." 

The  callousness  of  this  last  statement  did  not  shock 
the  girl.  "And  she  fell  in  love  with  you  and  made  love 
to  you,"  she  suggested,  without  malice,  "and — oh, 
yes,  I  see.  It  is  verree  simple.  Well,  and  what  are  you 
going  to  do  with  me  ?  I  don't  believe  you  really  love 
me.  Not  as  Pedro  does !" 

"Damn  Pedro." 

"Yes,  but  Pedro  is  rich.  And  he  will  marry  me. 
To-morrow,  if  I  like !" 

Gunning  was  almost  sorry  for  the  unconscionable 
Skene,  as  he  saw  his  face  pale  at  her  words. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  357 

"My  God,  Blanziflor,  you  know  I'd  marry  you  to- 
morrow if  I  had  the  money.  But  I  couldn't  even  pay 
the  parson !" 

"Well,  then,  what  do  you  mean  to  do  with  me  ?"  she 
persisted.  "Why  do  you  not  go  to  your  Mr.  Moon- 
flower  and  say  to  him,  'Look  here,  you  shot  out  my 
eye,  give  me  money  for  it.' * 

"Nonsense,  I  can't  do  that.  Try  to  remember  that 
I  was  at  least  born  a  gentleman,"  he  retorted 
clossly. 

"All  right.  If  you  cannot  marry  me,  then  I  will 
marry  Pedro,"  went  on  her  sweet  voice. 

Before  he  answered  her  Gunning's  attention  was 
attracted  by  an  old  native  woman  who  came  out  of  the 
kitchen.  She  was  very  ancient,  very  wrinkled,  very 
black,  and  she  was  smoking  a  pipe. 

The  girl,  seeing  her  approach,  spoke  sharply  to  her 
in  some  native  dialect  and  the  half-naked  old  creature 
turned  obediently  and  ambled  back  into  her  lair. 

"You  don't  like  my  dear  grandmother,"  laughed  the 
girl  in  lazy  amusement. 

Skene  groaned.  "She  is  abominable.  I — I  can't 
bear  to  think  of  her — it  is  loathsome." 

"And  yet  she  is  my  mother's  mother!  And  such  a 
handsome  Portuguese  gentleman  loved  her!  My 
mother  was  prettee,  and  I  am  the  beautiful  Blanziflor 
Truscott;  my  father  is  an  English  gentleman! 
Verree  nice." 

Gunning  understood.  He  had  once  seen  a  very 
much  intoxicated  Englishman  staggering  up  the  main 
street,  and  some  one  had  told  him  the  story.  "Poor  old 


358  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Bill  Truscott — lived  here  for  thirty  years ;  married  a 
half-breed — gone  utterly  to  smash." 

And  this  beautiful  creature  was  the  result  of  the 
marriage. 

Two  things  were  made  plain  with  merciful  rapidity 
to  Gunning.  He  need  have  no  further  compunctions 
about  Skene,  whom  he  could  easily  buy  off ;  and  with 
such  evidence  as  this  in  his  hands  Daffy  could  not 
possibly  refuse  to  be  convinced  of  her  lover's  baseness. 
Very  quietly  the  eavesdropper  crept  away  from  his 
bench  and  made  his  way,  after  a  long  tramp  in  the 
Cinnamon  Garden,  homeward. 


CHAPTER   XLII 

WHEN  Gunning  reached  home  the  first 
thing  he  saw  was  Daffy's  luggage  go- 
ing down  the  avenue  in  a  bullock  cart. 
The  steamer,  he  knew,  sailed  early,  and 
he  went  at  once  to  the  drawing  room  to  make  sure  that 
she  had  not  already  gone  on  board. 

She  sat  at  the  writing  table  sealing  a  letter,  her 
mouth  screwed  up  earnestly.  For  a  moment  she  did 
not  see  him  and  he  watched  her  with  a  great  feeling  of 
pity  and  tenderness  in  his  heart. 

She  was  unjust,  and  cruel,  and  absurd,  but  she  was 
so  little,  so  wan  in  the  warm  evening  light;  she  was 
the  same  pathetic  little  Daffy  whom  he  had  picked  up 
that  night  years  ago  in  the  boat  off  the  Sussex  coast. 
And  now  he  was  going  to  rescue  her  again!  The 
quaint  thought  gave  him  a  kind  of  melancholy  pleas- 
ure. Would  she  again  assure  him  of  her  age  and  per- 
fect ability  to  take  care  of  herself? 

She  looked  up  to  find  him,  his  face,  kind  as  of  old, 
bent  toward  her.  "Why,  Hughie,"  she  said,  with  a 
little  gasping  surprise,  "how  queer  you  look!" 

Then  she  remembered  and  drew  herself  up  with 
much  dignity.  "I  have  sent  my  luggage  to  the 
steamer,"  she  said,  "and  Hemming  and  I  go  early  in 
the  morning.  I  have  written  you  a  long  letter  to  read 
after  I  have  gone.  I  was  going  to  put  it  on  your 

859 


360  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

table  just  before  I  left,  but  you  might  as  well  take 
it." 

"Why  didn't  you  pin  it  on  my  pincushion?"  he 
asked  with  a  little  smile. 

"Why  your  pincushion?" 

"That's  what  most  women  do  who  are  deserting 
their  husbands !" 

But  his  joke  seemed  to  her  out  of  place. 

"I  suppose  you  won't  mind  my  talking  to  Mr. 
Skene  after  dinner?"  she  said  severely;  "there  are 
things  I  must  explain  to  him." 

Gunning  hesitated,  overcome  by  a  sudden  fear  of 
hurting  her.  It  seemed  like  executing  a  baby  with  a 
sixteen-pounder. 

"Daffy,  dear,"  he  said,  "did  you  ever  hear  of  a  very 
beautiful  girl  here,  named — let  me  see — Blanziflor, 
yes,  Blanziflor  Truscott  ?" 

"No." 

"Well,  her  father's  a  drunken  Englishman,  a  gen- 
tleman once,  poor  wretch,  who  married  a  Portuguese 
half-breed.  They  live  in  the  Pettah,  in  a  tumble-down 
bungalow." 

Daffy  remembered.  "Oh,  yes,  I  have  seen  her,  also 
the  father.  The  bungalow  has  some  absurdly  preten- 
tious name ;  I've  forgotten  it.  But  why,  Hughie,  what 
about  her?" 

"Skene  is  in  love  with  her,"  he  said  bluntly,  unable 
to  find  words  in  which  to  clothe  properly  the  ugly, 
naked  fact. 

"I  don't  believe  it,"  she  answered  flatly,  and  it  was 
clear  that  she  did  not. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  361 

*« 

"But  it  is  true.  He  would  marry  her  if  he  could.  I 
tell  you,  I  know"  he  persisted. 

"It  is  not  true  at  all,  and  I  didn't  think  you'd  do 
such  a  thing.  I'm  going  to  dress  and — "  she  moved 
toward  the  door,  but  paused  on  her  way,  one  hand 
raised  in  an  attitude  of  listening. 

"Here  he  comes,"  she  said  quietly,  "now  you  must 
let  me  tell  him  what  you  have  said." 

"Very  well." 

Neither  of  them  was  ever  to  forget  the  two  minutes 
they  stood  in  silence,  listening  to  Skene's  light  foot- 
steps as  he  came  up  the  roadway,  into  the  house,  and 
across  the  hall. 

When  he  opened  the  door  he  paused,  struck  by 
something  in  the  atmosphere. 

"Nicko,"  Daffy  began  at  once,  without  preamble, 
"I  have  told  my  husband  that  we  love  each  other  and 
that  I  wish  him  to  divorce  me." 

"You  have  told  him — yes,  I  know,  last  night," 
stammered  the  young  man.  "Well — "  he  turned,  as 
was  his  habit,  so  that  Gunning  could  not  fail  to  see 
his  green  patch,  but  this  time  Gunning,  for  the  first 
time,  did  not  flinch. 

Gunning  was  silent  for  a  moment,  while  the 
other  two,  recognizing  his  intention  to  speak, 
waited. 

At  last  he  said  to  Skene,  "Well — and  when  I  have 
arranged  the  divorce,  you  wish  to  marry  my  present 
wife?" 

Skene  was  very  pale,  and  later  they  both  remem- 
bered that  he  had  been  pale  when  he  came  in. 


362  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

"Yes,"  he  said  slowly,  "if  she  will  do  me  the 
honor." 

Gunning  was  surprised,  but  his  face  did  not  show 
it.  He  had  left  his  knot-hole  too  soon. 

"You  will,  I  am  sure,  recognize  my  right  to  make 
sure  before  I  take  any  definite  steps  in  the  matter  that 
her  happiness  really  lies  with  you?" 

"Of  course."  Skene  arranged  the  ribbons  that  held 
the  patch  in  place  as  he  spoke,  but  again  Gunning  did 
not  wince. 

"Then — excuse  my  abruptness — you  love  Daffy  ?" 

"Of  course  he  does,"  she  interrupted  eagerly,  "and 
you  have  no  right " 

"Hush !"  said  Gunning.    Then  he  again  waited. 

"I  do  love  her.  Yes,  of  course,  I  do.  Now  are  you 
satisfied?" 

There  was  something  like  a  snarl  in  his  voice  as  he 
brought  out  the  words,  and  he  looked  away. 

Daffy  shot  a  reproach-laden  glance  at  Hughie. 

He  was  doing  what  she  wished,  but  he  was  not  doing 
it  graciously,  as  she  had  expected.  She  was  conscious 
of  a  feeling  of  disappointment  in  him. 

"Yes,  I  hope  you  are  satisfied,"  she  said  with 
dignity. 

"Stop!  I  am  not  satisfied.  Listen  to  me,  Skene, 
and  Daffy,  watch  him  well.  I  have  a  proposal  to  make 
to  you,  Skene.  I  have  the  intention  of  buying  Hars- 
camp's  rubber  plantations.  I  have  felt  ever  since  that 
most  unfortunate  accident — for  which  God  knows  I 
shall  suffer  all  my  life,  that  I  ought  to  make  you 
some  substantial  reparation  for  the  loss — the  loss  of 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  363 

your  eye,  which  you  sustained  through  ray  miserable 
carelessness. 

"Now  the  Black  Hill  Plantation  is,  I  believe,  a  very 
fine  one.  I  wish  to  give  it  to  you,  not  because  I 
imagine  for  one  minute  that  it  will  in  any  slight  meas- 
ure make  up  to  you  for  your  terrible  misfortune,  but 
because  I  wish  you  to  be — because — well,  in  short — 
because  I  wish  you  to  have  it.  You  will  allow  me  this 
pleasure  ?" 

"The  Black  Hill  Plantation — why  it's — it's  worth — 
it's  one  of  the  best  on  the  island,"  stammered  Skene — 
"I  really  couldn't " 

"Wait  a  moment.  I  am  a  rich  man.  I  can  quite 
well  afford  it.  That's  beside  the  question.  I  have  one 
condition  to  make.  You  will  guess  it." 

"That  he  gives  me  up,  of  course,"  sneered  Daffy, 
with  deep  scorn.  "Hughie,  I  am  ashamed  of 
you." 

"Yes,  that  he  gives  you  up  and  marries  the  woman 
he  really  loves,  Blanziflor  Truscott." 

Skene  groped  behind  him  for  a  chair  and  sat  hud- 
dled in  it  for  a  full  minute  before  he  spoke. 

"Blanziflor — I  don't  understand." 

"Yes,  you  do,"  contradicted  Gunning  sternly,  "you 
understand  perfectly  well.  Be  a  man,  Skene.  Tell  my 
silly  little  wife  the  truth.  She  doesn't  really  love  you 
any  more  than  you  love  her.  Come,  it  won't  kill  her, 
you  needn't  be  afraid!" 

DafFy  went  and  stood  by  the  coward  in  the  chair. 

"Why  don't  you  answer?"  she  asked  him  curiously. 
"Answer  him,  Nicko." 


364  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

Skene  moistened  his  dry  lips  with  the  tip  of  his 
tongue.  "I — I — "  he  stammered. 

"Hurry  up,"  Gunning  looked  at  his  watch.  "My 
offer  holds  good  for  exactly  two  minutes  longer." 

He  stood  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  galloping  second 
hand.  A  minute  passed  and  sweat  broke  out  on  his 
brow.  Suppose  the  fellow  were,  after  all,  too  vain  to 
expose  himself  to  Daffy.  Suppose  he  counted  too 
surely  on  Lambe  to  help  them  out ;  suppose  a  definite 
break  had  taken  place  between  the  Truscott  girl  and 
Skene  after  he,  Gunning,  had  left. 

Skene  breathed  hard,  his  face  livid  behind  the  green 
patch.  Gunning  fixed  his  eyes  now  on  the  green  patch 
that  was  to  him  a  symbol  of  so  much  suffering.  Was 
his  whole  life  to  be  ruined  by  it  ? 

Daffy  stood  very  erect,  her  eyes  on  the  sea.  She 
was  curiously  motionless. 

"Thirty  seconds  more  and  your  chance  is  gone," 
said  Gunning.  "Twenty  seconds — ten " 

"I — I  accept  it,"  stammered  Skene,  rising  and 
stumbling  toward  the  window,  "I'm  ill,  I'm  going  to 
faint." 

"Get  some  brandy,  Daffy,  it's  true,  he  is  faint- 
ing." 

Daffy  rushed  to  the  dining-room  and  came  back 
with  a  carafe  in  her  hand. 

"Here,  Skene,  drink  this,  it's  only  brandy — no,  no, 
you  must  take  it." 

Gunning's  voice  sounded  like  a  doctor's,  Daffy 
thought  vaguely. 

Then  Skene  stood  up,  drawing  a  deep  breath. 


THE  GREEN  PATCH  S65 

"Sorry  to  have  made  such  an  ass  of  myself,"  he 
murmured,  "I — I  had  a  queer  turn." 

"Yes,  but  you're  all  right  now." 

"Dinner  is  served,  Madame,"  announced  Thompson, 
in  his  startlingly  every-day  voice. 

"I  must  go."  Skene  turned  to  Daffy.  "You  will 
excuse  me." 

"Of  course,"  she  said  civilly,  but  Gunning  detained 
him. 

"One  minute.  You  accept  my  offer  of  the  Black 
Hill  Plantation,  and  you  admit  that  you  love  this 
young  lady?" 

"Yes."  After  all,  there  is  some  good  in  most  peo- 
ple. Skene  drew  himself  up  a  little  and  faced  them 
with  a  certain  dignity. 

"I  have  known  Miss  Truscott  for  four  years,  nearly, 
I  have  always  cared  for  her.  But  it  all  seemed  hope- 
less. You  probably  know  that  her  mother  was  a  half- 
caste,  and  you  will  have  seen  her  father.  I'd  have 
married  her,  however,  any  time  these  four  years  if  I 
could.  But  I  hadn't  a  penny.  This  very  afternoon  I 
said  good-bye  to  her,  and  I — I  am  very  fond  of— -of 
Mrs.  Gunning.  I  should  have  tried " 

"You  may  leave  that  out,"  declared  Gunning. 

Skene  cleared  his  throat.  "As  you  say,  Mrs.  Gun- 
ning has  been  misled  by  her  pity  for  my — my  acci- 
dent (about  which  you  are  inclined,  I  fear,  to  think 
too  much),  I  am  sure  that  her  feelings  for  me  are 
really  only  those  of — of  friendship  and  pity." 

"Wait  a  moment,  Mr.  Skene!"  Daffy's  voice  was 
very  cool  and  remote.  "Pity  only — but  friendship !  I 


366  THE  GREEN  PATCH 

have  been  an  utter  fool  and,  all  things  considered,  I 
don't  blame  you  for — for  resigning  yourself  to  ac- 
cepting me  with  the  luxury  you  know  I  probably 
meant  for  you.  But  friendship!  Oh,  no." 

She  walked  away  to  the  window. 

Skene  flushed.  "This  is  most  unpleasant,"  he  said 
awkwardly,  "and  she  is  very  unjust.  I  will  go." 

"Unpleasant,  yes,"  corrected  Daffy  from  the  win- 
dow, without  turning.  "Unjust,  no." 

"Good-bye,  Gunning." 

"Good-bye,  Skene,  I  will  arrange  it  all  with  my  so- 
licitor as  soon  as  I  get  back.  I  have  your  address. 
And  you  do  believe  in  my — my  everlasting  sorrow 
about  your  eye?" 

Skene  nodded  gravely.  "Yes,  I  do,  of  course  I  do. 
And  I  hope — I  hope  things  will  be" — he  glanced  at 
Daffy. 

Gunning  frowned  a  little.    "Good-bye,"  he  said. 

Then  Skene  left,  and  Gunning  went  to  where  his 
wife  stood  by  the  window. 


THE  END 


A    000129016    2 


